Still Ill
by Brutal-Bugaboo
Summary: AU. In the year 2067 earth is recuperating from WWIII. Though the UK has won the war against the USA, its government, or what's left of it, has become more corrupt than it's ever been. Arthur, a scrawny American adolescent, tries his best to survive in London's streets but soon gets sold as a slave to the Colonel of England's military: Eames. Warnings inside.
1. Prologue

**PLEASE READ:** this story contains topics (and/or mentioning) of racism, prostitution, homophobia, violence, rape, slavery, human trafficking, drugs, murdering, weaponry, overall discrimination and abuse, etcetera.  
><strong>In no way, shape or form do I support any of the prejudices nor is it my intention to insult a single reader of this story.<strong>

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><p><strong>Still Ill.<strong>

**Prologue.**

_Victim, or life's adventurer.  
><em>_Which of the two are you?_

_Year 2067._

_London, England._

The city, with its citizen-void streets and decay-littered alleyways, was but a ghostly shade of what it once had been; metropolitan of tourism, home of the royal. Amongst the nationwide demolition one pride remained. Albeit fractured, the Tower Bridge stood tall and proud. A colossal thorn in the eyes of those who'd fought the battled war, and inevitably had lost.

It was London's sneer. London's warning to any nation greedy for robbing its civilization.

There were those convinced that the monument maintained the little pride that had been left intact over a rotten decade recently passed. Then there were those, rationality-led negativism in hand, who were certain that the bridge had done more bad than it had good.

England's leaders preached about standing ground, about their pride which honestly had disintegrated a long time ago. The Tower Bridge, dramatically enough, enjoyed more protection from London's military than the backstreet citizens selves. This was only enforced were statistics of civilian deaths to be publicized, verifying the great amount of victims slaughtered by American forces far away from the Tower Bridge, hence far away from England's soldiers.

Naturally, statistics were no longer of importance with a government fallen low enough to abandon its own people.

One would not be able to claim it unanticipated; that more Brits than Americans had tried to bomb the bridge down over the past twelve months. Though both nations desired the monument's downfall, it were for greatly different objectives.

And most certainly one would not be able to claim it unforeseen that the English came to rebel against their own hierarchy.

Trust in the system was close to nonexistent whilst the border between the rich and poor continued to expand rapidly. Men who possessed plenty of whitewashed bills could go as far as purchasing their own military-trained bodyguard, or perhaps even rent one of the bunkers within London city (useful if Americans were to be spotted at the horizon for a redo of bloodshed).

In the shadows of those who stood tall, existed beings who were required to practice patience until clouds would collide above the streets and water would pour down into various buckets, bowls and the hands of delighted children. All this just to be able to bathe and hydrate.

Nonetheless, England's regime had been one of the last in the world to fall. Therefore it had been the logical step to take, for other countries, to clasp hands with Britain and hope to be dragged along through the apocalyptic-scaled downfall of governments, societies and systems.

Some had actually succeeded in this, only because the English had deemed them usable in the war against the United States.

Sharing nationalities and homes with Belgians, French, Germans and even a low percentage of Swedes, England was a powerful union to be standing last. Though, their biggest gain had been the Japanese whom had all but forgotten the help they'd received from Britain itself, a decade earlier when the third world war had only just begun.

With the nukes burnt in memoirs, the Japanese were pleasurably humbled to be battling America with more force than they could've ever hoped for. After all, Pearl Harbor had not at all been enough to quench the salivating thirst of vengeance.

As the saying went; '_with great power comes great responsibility_' and the nation had soon been overwhelmed by its own victory. This combined with an overdone sense of pride, made their reasoning blur, their believes haze and empathy wither. Priorities leaned towards the rich and the monuments, leaving citizens-in-need at the other side to fend for themselves.

The word 'irony' would be an understatement to define facts that the people of the country had been there from the beginning, supporting their own nation, flags held high as a sign of power and trust in their leaders. Yet now, abandoned and left to survive on a minimum of wages, the English had nothing to lose and they smeared said irony back in the faces of the authorities; rebelling and sacrificing lives to out statements of disdain.

Nevertheless, England remained one of the most secure places left on the globe.

Though they fought their own people -their rebels- with a disturbing lack of empathy, a society was still held in place. A wobbly line, waved as a maze through the back-streets of London, kept the city in one piece. The knots were messy and the ropes were starting to disintegrate at particular nooks and crooks, yet it bound together the little system left.

With professions such as prostitution, trafficking and burglary, the whitewashing business was at a never-ending roll from which the rich turned their gaze.

'What isn't known, will not kill' and 'What is seen, will be swiped from sight immediately, and more so mercilessly'.

That was England's saying.

And that was England's doing in the year two-thousand-sixty-seven.


	2. Part I - Arthur & Alexandra

**PART I**  
><strong>ARTHUR &amp; ALEXANDRA<strong>

Alexandra had taken her son along when fleeing from their neighborhood -located within New York City- towards the heart of London.

Merely twelve winters old and hardly a month after receiving the heinous news that his father -an air force sergeant- had passed away some time during the war, Arthur failed to care about what destination found place behind the horizon they were heading at.

With the United States crumbling at the seams, a woman without husband and with child would be granted more likability to survive by infiltrating Britain rather than sticking to grass roots. Though the lengthy trip overseas would be engulfed by hazards and challenges, it was still to be preferred over staying home long enough for American rebels or soldiers to burst through the front-door and bash their heads in for a slice of bread.

Alexandra had often found foreigners' believes about Americans obnoxious, if not hurtful. 'Narcissistic', 'credulous' and 'barbarous' were just some of the descriptions used by those who were not native and possessed blind-eyed opinions of those different from them. However, nowadays, she lacked the will to ban these believes from her own mind. As fellow citizens spent more time fighting one another than they did other countries, there was not a leg left to stand on in order to prove neighboring lands and those overseas wrong.

There wasn't a government left. Leaders had dismounted off their metaphorical high horses. Presidents had been assassinated in broad daylight and supremacy had seized to be. There were no longer buildings capable of being homes, no bedroom was secure enough to relish a well-needed night's sleep. Food was scarce and belonged to anyone violent and determined enough to claim it.

America had become a dog eat dog civilization. Women and children were the first to suffer either death, exploitation or plain abuse, be it sexual or not.

Alexandra continued being painfully aware of the irony that one of their enemies' nations simultaneously had been the only one to have been preserved throughout the decade it had taken for the war to ease down (though it had yet to settle fully). The chance of Arthur and her ever making it to England was slim. Nonetheless, fundamental for their possible survival.

It was well-known, particularly abroad, that large parts of central London possessed an amateurish system. Dirty jobs and even dirtier money existed to be obtained by citizens who hid out in the streets of the capital. And that alone was already more than America could ever offer a woman and her child.

Hiding their nationality could create a fortunate life for the both of them. Nevertheless, it wouldn't be a walk in the park.

Along repressed pride, she experienced wary gratefulness and was determined to hold on to the latter. If only for her son.

With that thought in mind, the young woman had been capable of packing their bags with trembling hands hardly ten minutes after she'd stabbed a man in the throat with a screwdriver. The burglar was left on her bedroom floor, limbs sprawled and a pool of crimson liquid surrounding his pale face.

Arthur had not questioned the reason as to why his mother's hands had been stained red or why she'd been shaking like a leaf. He'd remained quiet, helping her with carrying their luggage , and following her out in the middle of the night.

By the time Arthur figured out they were heading to the country that had sprouted men responsible for his father's death he couldn't withhold a cold tightness from wrapping itself all around his chest, squeezing and freezing anything within it.

The kid knew his parent had been shot by an English soldier, if he were to believe the black-on-white statement he'd read in a file his mother had hidden under her mattress. And he did. He did believe it. But God, how he wished he had not been able to.

There wasn't much of an excuse -a possibility- for granting that desire, though. The red letters 'DECEASED' had been stamped on the file's off-yellow cover; impersonal and confronting. To prove further point they'd taped one of his father's belongings to the back. Arthur had gently pulled the small, red die from underneath the messy patches of tape covering it, before rolling it between his fingers and into his palm.

To this moment, Arthur remembered how often he'd seen his father fidget with the die in day to day life. He'd be fumbling with it while consuming breakfast, finger at it on the table as he was half distracted by the newspaper. And when not out in the open, the die would always be pocketed to his person.

Bright enough to know it had been a kind of 'stress-ball' for his father, Arthur's heart had jumped up his throat when taking in how faded the white dots had become, how the corners had lost their sharpness to a rounding that came from years of thumbing at them. The die had not been like this when Arthur had last seen it; mere weeks before his parent had left to attend the war. It was a sadistic truth to comprehend that his father had managed to wear out the little cube in just a matter of months.

His throat had prickled with the bile crawling up to the back of his tongue and nose. His heart had seemed to shrivel in on itself until Arthur had felt as if he'd had a damn prune in his chest, useless and only stalling inevitable decay.

He'd squeezed his father's die, foolishly hoping it'd somehow give him the answers to questions which remained too overwhelming, too chaotic to be asked properly, and then had shoved it into his back-pocket when noting Alexandra had been ascending the staircase outside the room. He certainly had been all but willing to have his mother catch him sneaking around in her room, finding out details about his father's death which she had selfishly refused to share, plead after plead.

Naturally, it'd be fair to say that Arthur had come to despise the English -the **enemy**- with an even greater passion that night. Resentment, however, would be a too grand of a word to describe what he'd felt towards his mother for keeping so much information of his father from his one and only son, ... as if she'd wanted her dead husband to herself. Resentment or not, this bitter jealousy would remain with him for years to come.

In spite of that, the boy had empathized with his mother whose face had paled and aged rapidly over the past weeks as they'd emigrated their home-ground. The rims of her eyes had appeared permanently reddened, the brightness of which only highlighted the dark bags underneath. The corners of her mouth had seemed to have been tugged down by her own subconscious at all times, even when she'd smiled, genuine or not.

It had been, and still was, a pitiful sight and an image which caused Arthur to snap his mouth shut in order to keep his rage, his grief, his secrets (and the awareness of _hers)_ to himself.

It took them at least a month to infiltrate England and another week or so before finding a small, askew house of which the door looked as if it'd drop off the second one would so much as glare at it. The windows -or lack therefore- appeared even more decayed.

The life they built, within those disintegrating walls, was humble luxury compared to the traveling they'd gone through. It didn't take long for Alexandra to carry a Cockney accent with so much ease it astounded her son. Better yet; fooled even the English.

Arthur, though, got labeled mute by not only his parent but as well the few neighbors they dared to step into contact with after having resided a couple of months in London. It was best to hide the heavy American tongue that belonged to the boy as he'd yet to teach himself how to adapt a whole new dialect.

Yet, that wasn't what he spent his time on. On the contrary; Arthur's gray mass _refused_, stubbornly, to adapt to the English around them.

The metaphorical ache within his heart and the nauseating heaviness on his stomach had yet to ease down. His mind turned into itself, locking his thoughts within throbbing headaches which he hid from his mother as best as he could.

The negativism, with no way out, soon enough accompanied the pounding within his skull and awakened the lingering spite beneath the surface of his conscious.

Arthur soon enough accepted that -not unlike his very own mother- he was not capable of having his smile reach to his eyes.

_'Is this how mom feels? Is this what it's like to be an adult?' _Arthur had once asked himself; knowing the answer was more likely to confirm his fears rather than soothingly disregard them.

Allowing someone, or oneself, to grow up too fast rarely would be considered a good plan. Often, this mistake would return to bite one back, sole question being 'when' and 'how'.

After all, a child should never have to prematurely put an end to their innocence or lose their sense of security. Nevertheless, with no choice whatsoever and lacking the knowledge and tools to cope; this is exactly what Arthur did and evermore would have to do.

Six months living in London later, he found a difficult time in grasping positivism within and around himself.

The most sinister lesson he'd get taught in England was that life -in all its glory- was not to be taken for granted.

And he figured this out far sooner than any child should have to.

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><p><em>February, 2068. <em>

_one year later._

The streets were overwhelmed with not only the presence of hundreds of soldiers but as well the harsh noise of weaponry being fired and the commotion of shouts being barked. Three AM stormy weather roared over the city, rain muffling the tones that the wind carried up-and-through the various ruins in which citizens sheltered.

These miserable elements went hand-in-hand with the present, despondent affairs.

On the second floor of a condominium that seemed to have lost enough bricks to create an entire new building with; Arthur lay cradled in his mother's arms. His ears were covered by her cold palms, eventhough this did not lessen the awareness of the atmosphere around them; stiflingly uncanny. Still and all, with a cerebellum not yet fully grown into grasping -let alone accepting- the world's viciousness, he managed to find some faith that the ending could be happy no matter what crossed Alexandra and his' path. He _had_ to believe this. He clung onto it, like a cat on a branch, refusing to let go considering what lied in the abyss was as unknown as it was frightening.

Self-deception was a talent which Arthur had quickly adapted in the past twelve months. He dreaded the day he'd be too levelheaded, too aware, too masochistic to allow himself his selective blindness.

Alexandra felt less optimistic because of a mind that had been taught to process events rationally and thus negatively. She had been brought up with a wooden ruler handled by an uncle who'd had perversions not able to be restrained when around little girls, Needless to say she'd been obliged to grow up twice as fast in order to give wrongdoing and injustice a place in her premature brain.

To escape the toxic environment of her adolescence, she'd married young to a man who'd thankfully had been anything but the male role-models she'd been raised by.

Their dearest boy was born only ten days after Alexandra's nineteenth birthday and she'd always consider that particular happening as the best one of her life.

Who would've ever been able to guess she'd be running for her and her child's life less than one and a half decades later? No one had been able to foresee the ugly and brisk turn the war had taken within mere months. Let alone anyone having ever speculated that England would become the only safety haven on earth, and a poor excuse for one.

Only the young and gullible would not see through the dictators' ways. Each and every other citizen was aware that the safety and shelter granted to them in London's alleys was but a fancy business-card to attract allies and intimidate contenders. It was not at all about the people, however all chose to cover eyes with familiarity and move on with their required, daily routines.

But all tales came to an end, no matter good or bad.

Tonight this ending would likely occur.

Alexandra blamed the pride-driven egoists for having nudged the patience out of England's leaders, day by day, week by week and month by month. With their failed attempts to attack their own system from the inside out and the various illegal activities of brewing alcohol and creating weaponry that no man who was not a member of the military was allowed to possess; the cloak had been lifted off the government's visage. The blind eye that had once been turned regained sight and a hunger for control roared through the streets that night because of those who'd ruined it for all.

What would happen wasn't certain as of yet, but Arthur's mother had caught wind of the stories describing similar happenings in the past in which England's force had been sent out to clean up the back-streets by shooting anything appearing deviant or so little as suspicious. She'd heard that, at moments such as these, women and children were not any safer than men and that staying inside, hiding, was the best chance of surviving the x amount of hours it'd take the English and Japanese soldiers to roam through London. After all, the city had been surrounded hours before the initial intrusion. Their brutality certainly matched a strategic tactic.

Alexandra, Arthur and all the neighbors nearby were trapped like mice.

"Mom-" Arthur's quiet voice disrupted her panicking thoughts as they'd come closer and nearer to the most likely and negative of outcomes that could take place that same night.

She hushed him, pressing her hands more firmly on the shells of his out-sticking ears and proceeded to plant a light kiss on his forehead. Her lips were cold and dry, teeth barely managing to not clatter in nervosity.

Alexandra tried rather desperately to ignore the hisses in her head which tauntingly warned her that this could be the last time she'd ever hold her child, ever see him, hear him, feel him and smell him. The brunette squeezed her eyes shut and started to whisper prayers to a god she'd never really believed in. Yet, if one did exist... no better time than present would ever come to repent and simply plead to save them, or at the least spare her son.

The hairs on the back of Arthur's neck rose. His senses went beyond just picking up the cold that seeped into the room through one of its broken windows. There floated an eerie breeze within his mind, prodding parts of the subconsciousness towards the surface, splaying out truths and akin nightmares.

The both of them jumped at the loud shot as a gun got fired right underneath their second-floor window. Alexandra was undoubtedly sure that hadn't been a handgun, let alone a pistol, but far more possibly a musket of heavy caliber.

Shouts and laughter followed suite before another weapon discharged, nearly succeeding in muffling the yelp of another -likely- victim. Their steps continued to walk a path over gravel that intentionally surrounded the building in order to betray intruders' presence with the crunch it left underneath the weight of feet.

Not that this was of any issue to the tenacious soldiers.

Alexandra perked her ears, mentally following their direction and quickly realized the footsteps were rounding the corner of the building, towards the front door. She pulled her boy more tightly against her. Arthur's voice, muffled in the collar of his mother's dusty shirt, questioned what was going on. There came no reply other than a shush.

It worried him. However, Arthur did not dare to press. Whether this was out of fear for his mother's reaction or simply for having the answer spelled out to him, he wasn't sure.

The thin walls -and cracks within them- barely managed to dampen the murmurs of anxious neighbors, or the bang downstairs as the front door was forced open by either shoulders or feet. Rustling of clothing, clicks of weaponry and thumps of boots running up wooden stairs followed straight after.

Arthur's fingers dug into the fabric of Alexandra's blouse, grateful when her hands returned to his ears. Yet, her cold palms didn't do much to hide the cacophony of tumbling furniture, whimpering victims and firearms being shot. The soldiers made quick work of cleaning out the building, not bothering to argue or prolong unavoidable capturing and deaths as they marched closer to Alexandra and Arthur's location.

This was it.

The veil had been lifted off their safety haven and the day which Alexandra had apprehended since that night she'd grabbed her boy and had fled away from their home and life as they'd known it, had at last arrived.

England's maladjusted union had gotten fed up by resident criminals whom unfortunately -but predictably- hid and lived amongst those who desired no part in their wrongdoings.

Not only was there weaponry and bombs being assembled of kitchen supplies and toxins, but as well there existed rumors of unauthorized alcohol-brewing in numerous households' basements. All of those were as illegal as the laundered money being distributed through gambling and brutal fistfights (of which the contenders were often pumped up by abusing mentioned banned alcohol, if not confounded stimulants).

Arthur's mother had never done anything to fight England. Being grateful for the little security it provided her and her child; she'd never longed to fight a system connected to her husband's death. Yet, privilege omitted... It just did not count.

A grand amount of the low-class were destined to be exterminated. Americans in particular didn't stand a chance.

If 'Yanks' would walk into an Englishman (whether or not he'd be a member of the military) rest assured they'd not live to tell. Undoubtedly so, this had been the number one reason as to why Alexandra had taught her son to not utter a word around any living being. Arthur were to hide his American tongue and leave his pride aside, all the while accepting that a man of any nationality -even their own- was the enemy.

**No **exceptions.

Her son had been a gentle sweetheart before his father had passed. Yet, Arthur had grown, Arthur had changed and this was for the better. Nevertheless, it hurt Alexandra, as a mother, to witness her little boy turning more bitter than a child would be considered capable of. She couldn't stop him from despising the murderers of his father and hence soothed him every morning and night. Often she'd wish she could just take her son's heart in hand and calm it, stitch the wounds and disinfect the spite.

In her nostalgic aching, Alexandra held her boy more tightly against her, cursing herself for not having at least _tried _to run, _tried_ to hide. She could feel the stiffness in his shoulders of which the blades protruded skin. Arthur's inhales were shallow, straining his scrawny chest and with every exhale his throat would gurgle softly.

Arthur was unwell, to put it lightly, and this had been a factor in her decision to stay put and not take any more chances.

A selfishly hopeful thought had crossed her mind from the moment Arthur's pneumonia had worsened rapidly overnight a couple of weeks ago. Guilt accompanied Alexandra not a second later after she'd pondered her son being better off if he'd get taken away to be an Englishman's personal servant... because then, well, Arthur would receive the treatment he so desperately needed. There'd be medicine, food, water and surely they'd give him a place to rest just so he could regain his health and be a proper slave.

Yet, those last three words of her crazed thoughts had punched her in the gut immediately. The thought of her boy living a life of slavery and abuse with no one around to comfort him, terrified her.

Alexandra took a deep breath before she continued whispering lies against Arthur's forehead, about how everything was going to be alright and he did not need to fear when in her arms.

These false promises only amplified their dishonesty when not a second later there sounded banging at the door, the hinges clattered with the force of the attached-wood being hammered. Holding her breath, palming the boy's ears, she watched the shadows underneath the door. Feet shuffled almost in sync with the murmuring voices of the men; low and monotone.

And it was surreal. It took her breath away and made her heart skip several beats in its feverish attempt to pump blood and oxygen to her brain so it could release the necessary endorphins. The survival instinct caused her to grow nauseas, as if she was overdosing by a brain that seemed to prefer to melt out of her ears rather than come up with a solution.

A solution which, regardless of hope, did seize to exist.

There'd been rumors of an inside attack having been planned in the little community they were located at. About a dozen foreigners, and a couple of natives, had been plotting to take out England's current governor and his right-hand this very weekend. So she had heard.

These despicable egoists were very likely a big factor in having the military sent out and do a wipe-out in every alleyway, every corner, every home. As expected, the army had been one step ahead. She cursed the foolish men risking innocent lives for the sake of bombing down a building or shooting down persons of authority.

Then what? Were they to succeed. What did they expect would happen?

She doubted it'd ever get better than this.

Arthur jumped, as did Alexandra, when one of the soldiers barked in Japanese, his intonation leaving no doubt he was being a threat of impatient animosity.

The Japanese were even worse than the English.

They lacked even more empathy. Enjoyed even more torture.

They refused to learn a word of English, expecting that shouting or flailing a limb would be enough to communicate with frightened citizens. You could not reason with them, like you wouldn't be able to reason with a carnivorous animal. If a Jap wanted you dead, you'd have a bullet in your head before you could blink. Their patience, next to the English, was pretty much nonexistent.

These reminders alone were enough to spark her awake from the haze she'd forced herself into.

Arthur's eyes were big when she got up, pulling him with her, and then whispering for him to hide on the toilet and to lock the door.

Why hadn't she tried to run, or hide? Why hadn't she been taking action up until the last second of threat?!

In the back of her head she knew that either way it wouldn't have made a difference. Such as the others, they'd woken around two thirty in the night because of boisterous soldiers firing weapons and knocking down doors.

The place had been surrounded before anyone had had the slightest idea of what was going to take place. Inside they had a chance of being overlooked... Outside would have them assassinated within minutes.

When she glanced over her shoulder, away from the door which by now was starting to creak and groan underneath the pressure of shoulders and knees being rammed into it, Arthur was still there.

He stood straight-up, jaws clenched and eyes feigning confidence remarkably well.

"Arthur, go!" She hissed, pointing at the door only a few feet behind him, an urging hand pushing his shoulder.

"I'm not leaving you alone, mom. Not after dad!" He whispered angrily and Alexandra felt a cold sweat rushing over her.

"Arthur, for god's sake!" Her voice broke in a plead, mid-sentence. She could feel her heart pounding throughout her whole body, fingertips and tongue included. Hysterical thoughts of killing her boy before the Japanese could, dashed about in the back of her mind. Perhaps she should have. Killing her son with a pillow over his face would've been a hundred times less miserable than falling in the hands of the army to be sold as a slave or prostitute.

He was barely thirteen. He was just a kid. His future should not be this grim.

A dry sob escaped Alexandra and she cupped it with a hand over her mouth, as if she could swallow it back down before it'd reach the boy's ears. Arthur did tilt his head to the side, though, and his frown only deepened. Yet, she still found strength in her trembling legs to walk forward and push him back.

"Go, Arthur, please go, please." Her hands were clammy, she had no doubt they'd leave damp prints on the boy's sweater were she to hold them there long enough.

Though her knees buckled, Alexandra's eyes drilled into her son's, wordlessly begging him to listen.

Arthur faltered in the fashion of blinking away from his mother's gaze which on its turn caused Alexandra to heave a sigh.

She saw some fight being lost in the boy's eyes, a shoulder moving to turn around and go to hide, and yes he could make it. She could distract these men from roaming through the tiny place. She could lie about living alone in here and go with them if they wanted to take her along. Alexandra could run, lure them out and though she knew this would not end well for her, it could tempt the men away from the room, the building, and then- Arthur.

Her son had not even lifted a single foot before the door swung open so harshly that the handle of it penetrated the wall behind it, preventing it from swinging back. As the world around her seemed to shatter like a glass house, the men carried on with their mission. Someone switched on the light, and it flickered as if it were unsure whether to ignite or pop. But as the room filled itself with an orange glow, a dozen soldiers strutted inside to immediately separate the woman from her boy.

It all happened in a flash... No... It'd been more like a haze. Alexandra didn't feel anything but numbness from top to toe, didn't hear anything but a stretched-out high-pitched tone as her brain seemed to malfunction with the shock of current happenings. Barely aware her body was being pulled this way and that, the woman tried desperately to refocus her blurry vision as her mind attempted to shake her awake, screaming -albeit muffled- that she had a son to protect.

It was the hint of her son's scent (vanilla-like), entering nostrils, that allowed her senses to re-obtain function. The high tone in her ears started making way for the noise of her surroundings, thought it sounded like she was under water which wouldn't surprise her for she hadn't been able to take a breath for what seemed like various, life-threatening minutes. Her rippling vision went from a blur to a stabbing sharpness a couple of times as she turned her head this way and that, searching her child in the mass of shades around her.

However, it wasn't until she got smacked across the face that she came back to herself so abruptly it caused her knees to give out. Alexandra never did drop to the floor and the realization as to why caused her stomach to churn. Two soldiers were holding her up with tight and painful grips under the pits of her arms.

There was a man in front of her, only a couple of feet away and he stenched of cigars. His uniform differentiated from the others and going by the pins and ribbons on his shoulder, Alexandra assumed he was a commander. His mouth babbled a language she wasn't able to translate and even if she were, Alexandra wouldn't care because she had other things on her mind, such as looking around the room to find Arthur.

Her heart seemed to remember to beat -though it felt more like it fluttered- when she spotted her boy on their make-shift bed to the right. With a skin paler than a sheet of paper, Arthur looked even younger and sicker than he already was and at that exact moment she'd give up blood and organs to just hold him and wipe away that stunned expression on his face.

The boy's eyes, which were wide and dark, didn't find his mother's gaze as he was too busy looking down the barrel of a gun pointed at between his eyebrows.

The threat alone was enough for Alexandra to envision the sight of her child being shot to death only meters away from her and that's when she turned to the man in front of her, sobbing, pleading to not hurt her boy.

The Japanese man cocked a thin eyebrow at her English gibberish and a few glances were shared between the various soldiers in the room. Alexandra repeated her words, multiple times, ignoring the increased annoyance showing on the Jap's face as he replied to her with the same word repeatedly. His eyes narrowed to a point where she couldn't tell if they were open or not.

How the hell was she supposed to understand his language?! Desperation shaped itself into anger and her face scrunched up in disgust as she spat the same plea to the man in front of her, over and over again.

"Let. Him. Go!"

It earned her another strike across the face, this time it stung enough for her to gasp, never mind she'd seen it coming. A hand wrapped itself in her hair before she was forced onto the floor, her knobby knees bruised as they impacted with the wooden boards beneath.

What followed next was a deafening silence which in any other circumstance could've been appreciated for its tendency to calm those within it. However, in this setting, it only seemed to press onto her ears so viciously Alexandra actually feared for her ears to implode. Her instincts were working overdrive. Anything she could process was processed too violently as it bordered on a reality that was just... well,_ too real_. She could taste the tanginess in the air. She could feel the escapism bleed out.

As was common for the average emotionally-constipated member of military, the man who'd struck Alexandra didn't bother having his or her words translated and instead found more interest in pacing around the room, slowly, methodologically.

Some frames, holding creased pictures of herself,her boy and her husband, were flicked off the wall to the floor by the pacing man's finger. The glass shattered as it impacted with the floor beneath and he refolded his hands behind his back, shaking off some glistening shards from his boot before he made way to the dresser next the bed. It missed a paw, its left-side tipped far lower than its right.

She'd be frustrated by this were she to own ornaments or knick-knacks, ideal to be displayed upon such furniture. But she had none of those and as the soldier pulled open a drawer, Alexandra knew he'd not find possessions of significance in there. Except for some utensils, a notebook and apparently a broken yo-yo, it lacked any blackmail material. Most men in the room snorted along with the Jap who'd just retrieved the toy from one of the drawers, trying to drop it from the string which snapped not a second after. It rolled between Arthur's feet underneath the bed.

Arthur watched the toy until it was out of sight before he finally gazed up at Alexandra. With their eyes locked, the atmosphere tilted down, raising the hairs on the back of Alexandra's neck. She pressed her lips together, a secret message that he needed to be completely quiet and not utter a word. He'd been taught this from the start of their 'new life', but Arthur could be explosive, could burst and make it all worse.

He'd gotten this from her. This spice, wit and passion reminded Alexandra of herself when she'd been younger. His father had been far too gentle to leave such characteristics upon his son. Arthur had inherited the man's handsome looks as well as the carefulness in which he'd keep to himself when not exploding in anger. Alexandra's heart throbbed at the memory of her partner and Arthur's parent. She had no doubt that if the boy would be granted a chance at life, he'd step into his father's footsteps and become a powerful and intelligent man.

When the commander walked back over, Alexandra's thoughts paused in favor of watching him move and coming to a stop right in front of her. His knees were at level with her nose and up close she noticed a dark stain on the fabric of his pants. It didn't take a genius to identify it as blood.

At the snap of his fingers, Alexandra got lifted up and she grew nauseas whilst swaying on her feet. If it weren't for the men holding her, the young woman had no doubt her knees would give out within mere seconds. Her head was heavy and dizzy with the blood being pumped through her system at a rapid pace. Her heart beat so fast, so loud, that it took her breath away and caused the nerves within her body to fibrillate as if her very existence was slipping into cardiac arrest.

Nonetheless she was brave enough to look the Japanese man in the eyes when he tapped two fingers against her chin, demanding her attention. His voice was surprisingly smooth, young even, when he asked her something in broken English. However, the stench of his breath and the proximity of his physique prevented Alexandra from tuning in right away. It took her too long to decipher what he was saying through his lazy foreign drawl, and it earned her another hand in her hair. This time it was the commander himself who grabbed a fistful of her brown strands, rather than the soldier to her left whose fingernails dug sharply in her upper-arm.

Other than a hiss, Alexandra granted this man no satisfaction in empowering the authority which he abused.

His hold tightened and with it her eyes squeezed shut for a split second before they darted around the room, foolishly trying to find a soldier who'd clarify this man's broken English.

Most of them looked awfully young, faces expressionless, each having a rifle dangling off a shoulder and handguns in hand. Their stares were as void of compassion as her heart was of hope.

The commander, after a spread-out silence, released his hold in favor of grabbing her face, fingers digging so deep they touched her teeth from the outside in.

He repeated his question then, calmer this time and after a couple of trembling, yet deep, breaths she understood.

"London." She lied, the word disfigured by the digits squeezing the muscles of her mouth. When he let go of her face, Alexandra repeated the answer just to make sure he'd understood her whereabouts. The Jap blinked slowly though his gaze did not falter.

Her American tongue found no difficulty in manipulating itself into the overly English dialect. She'd only have to clip some tones and roll her tongue more thickly than it already did in its familiar Yank-lingo. Even as it was unlikely for this man to note any difference between the two kinds of English, not all men in the room were illiterate Japs.

While the commander gnawed on the inside of his cheek, his sight traveled down her body and then crawled back up slower than it had went down. As a woman she understood what to fear from men like these, from men in general. The threat of her pride being ripped away from her caused her to straighten up, even though her 'five feet five' would never reach the towering level of the Jap (unusually tall for his nationality).

Her nostrils flared and fingers folded into white-knuckled fists. Vaguely she awed over the similarity with her own son's earlier body-language when he'd expressed that self-worth driven stubbornness as she'd tried to have him hide. Arthur was not one to back down, even when knowing he'd lose... And apparently, this as well, was an aspect carried over to him by herself. This characteristic was often not beneficial to one's survival. The arrogance that seemed to be engraved in her features as well as her son's only fueled those craving to dislike them. It were a perfect excuse to beat mentioned aura right off of their faces.

Expectedly the commander was easily aggravated and her stomach dropped when she watched him glance to his left. Alexandra followed his line of sight, her throat dry as she swallowed, observing Arthur who was still seated on the bed. Her body went stiff and her lungs took a strike on squeezing oxygen through her veins.

"He?" The Jap asked, jerking his head a bit towards Arthur, not bothering to point.

"London." Her reply was clipped and, thankfully, the trembling in her stomach didn't reach up to her voice.

"Family?" He queried right after, his eyes coming to rest back on hers and for all she was worth, Alexandra failed in reading the man's stone-cold face.

"Yes. My child."

The silence that poured into the room after her reply was loaded heavily, unspoken threats swirling around and shoving negative prospects into her head. This wasn't going to plan. Not that she had a plan... But Alexandra just dearly desired to keep all attention away from her boy.

Unlike she'd expected, the commander only shrugged with disinterest, murmuring some foreign words which made a few men in the room snigger.

She glanced back to her right and watched Arthur as he was still seated on the bed, quiet and deceitfully calm. The gun was still pointed at his head, though by now the boy had either tired or scared away from staring down the barrel and instead he gazed at the floor.

Though Alexandra had not expected it possible, he appeared even paler than five minutes ago. His skin was so white one could note the gray undertone to it. It only reminded her of how sick he was. His breathing wheezed softly and he occasionally stifled coughs, fearful of what would happen were he to out a sound.

Seeing him surrounded by armed men, only a couple of feet distanced from her, scrawny and cold and scared, was the most horrendous sight and happening she'd ever experienced. Not being able to hold him or tell him he'd be alright, that everything would be okay, was a sensation she'd never be able to express into words. The agony she was going through right now would easily overpower an eternity in hell and Alexandra could not imagine a more horrible moment in life than that exact moment.

As a mother, it was a brainless fact that she'd give her life for that of her child, her flesh and blood... her _baby_. She'd sacrifice herself to years of heinous torture if it'd mean Arthur would be okay.

However, she could not do a thing without risking_ him _being killed.

Her gaze flickered back to the Jap in front of her who'd been staring at her as she'd went on a mental roller-coaster where the peaks had been misery and the lows despair.

The commander observed her face, Alexandra hadn't a doubt he could see the redness of her nose and the wetness pooling in the rims of her eyes. Her body had sagged, the psychological turmoil too heavy to be carried on her shoulders. It was the silence, the anticipation and suspense, the clock ticking away, which just screwed with her brain and made the images on her inner eye-lids turn more brutal with each time she blinked.

A sigh left the man's lips, his mouth grimaced into an expression that bordered on boredom before he nodded at the soldiers holding her up.

They let go immediately and Alexandra huffed as she sagged onto the floor in a boneless heap.

The murmur of rustling clothes, footsteps and hushed conversations filled the air around her almost immediately after she'd collided with the floor. Men moved around, their boots on the wooden floorboards sent through tremors which she could feel vibrate from shins to kneecaps.

As she peeked through long strands of her hair which had fallen over her face when she'd ungracefully toppled down, Alexandra could tell a great part of the soldiers were leaving the room. At first thought this might've sound encouraging but she knew better.

The commander who was still located right in front of her, lifted his foot only to place the tip of his shoe on top of one of Alexandra's hands, splayed out on the floor. Whilst holding her breath, tensing every muscle in her small body, she listened to the Jap barking around orders. His voice rung loud in the small room, as if the tones bounced off the walls only to slam into her eardrums right after.

He wasn't talking to her, other soldiers replied to him and when she glanced up through her lashes could see him pointing at her son, back to her, then back to Arthur.

Alexandra had never desired more to be fluent in Japanese than she did right now.

The cacophony of movement and speech drummed through her chest, heart pulsating desperately though failing at pumping endorphins out of the brain. She was all out of those. She could feel it in her bones and her mind as she grew tired and every square inch of her, inside and out, ached.

Surprisingly enough the commander didn't quite lean his weight on the foot on her hand, though this form of 'taking pity' was hardly a reassurance. When he removed his boot, he turned on his heels and marched out of the room as well and Alexandra could hear and partially see that he and some of his soldiers descended the staircase to leave the building.

Alexandra's mind pounded pain and thoughts violently into her head as her eyes carefully roamed the room, not sure why no one was moving or talking no longer. There remained a handful of men in t he space, their energy suffocating the atmosphere by just being present and radiating threat through the eerie calm that had cascaded over them.

One of the soldiers who'd been holding her before had stayed right behind her and Alexandra swore she could feel his eyes stabbing daggers into her skull. This assumption was confirmed when a hard object nudged against the back of her head and it didn't take much imagination nor intelligence to note there was a gun pointed at her (more so _against_ her).

Arthur, to her right, was being maneuvered from the floor to stand on his feet and Alexandra felt her throat getting dryer than it had been before. The slight gasp rasped her windpipe though she hardly felt any physical discomfort for her attention was a hundred percent focused on her son who stood, small and unsure, next to a much taller soldier. The man's hand was large on the kid's bony shoulder but he didn't seem to be squeezing hard enough to hurt Arthur, his attention distracted by the conversation he was leading with one of his companions.

What were they plotting? One of them being Caucasian, Alexandra assumed they must be talking in English, but their voices were too hushed for her to grasp. Going by the looks of Arthur, unmoving, it was likely their language wasn't as close to home as Alexandra assumed it to be.

Speaking of her son, she tried intensely to get his attention, to get him to look up and meet her gaze. It wasn't like she could do anything to save either one of them, but she could tell Arthur's 'capturer' was ready to leave the room with him and she was desperate to just catch his eye, smile at him... reassure him, dishonestly so.

Alexandra begged any higher power to allow her this last chance to be a mother to her boy.

Arthur did look up when the soldier started urging him to walk towards the door and his brown eyes were wide and dark. He looked bewildered, facts and fears finally having penetrated his awareness. And what was she to do but smile at him, mouthing soundlessly that everything was going to be okay. When her lips were read by her son, she couldn't quite tell whether it was anger or uncertainty that flashed over his features for a split second.

Nevertheless, his face went blank and he stopped in his tracks.

It was a miracle he didn't get slapped or worse because of his disobedience and he seemed to be lucky with the Eastern-looking soldier as he only patted his shoulder and whispered something into his ear, expression soft but unreadable.

With no longer a gun being pointed at him, Arthur shook his head with a scowl, shaking the man's hand off him, turning to face Alexandra who was still observing the scenery to her right with a heart that had seized its rhythm in order to erratically burst about in her chest to the point she feared it'd beat itself up her throat and force itself out of her mouth.

"Tell him to leave." A voice behind Alexandra urged calmly. It was the man who had the gun pointed at the back of her head and by the sounds of it he seemed to be of Russian origin.

Alexandra was painstakingly aware of which events were about to take place the moment her son would exit the room. Alexandra knew that the two men to her left, leaning against the windowsill as they shared a cigarette and flashed shit-eating grins towards her, were to be feared much more than the ones flaunting weaponry.

And, Alexandra knew she'd never be able to prevent her fate, she'd never be able to put a stop to the abuse that awaited its time to shine just around the corner.

The single one thing she could do, though, was to have Arthur leave in order to spare him witnessing his mother's suffering. He deserved that... It was the most she could do. It was the last she could do.

"Baby, listen to them." Her voice was weak, caving underneath the oppression of the male figures within her proximity.

Arthur opened his mouth but snapped it shut when remembering his image of muteness. However, he did shake his head left to right, slow, wide-eyed.

Knowing what was in store for her, Alexandra started to crumble at the seams, her nose prickled with held back tears and her heart paced up when the man behind Arthur pinched the bridge of his own nose in impatience. He grabbed the back of Arthur's collar, forcing the kid to look up at him and then nudged his chin towards the door.

This minuscule display of violence seemed to set on course a domino-effect and the soldier behind her huffed a sigh, before grabbing Alexandra by the hair, once more, to pull her up her feet. She yelped, out of surprise rather than pain, watching fearfully as the men to her left pushed off the sill, one of them flicking a cigarette out of the window.

The moment her feet were planted firmly onto the floor, the hand in her hair disentangled itself in favor of wrapping fingers around her throat, pulling her back against the man's chest. She swallowed down a whimper, batting her eyelashes to stop her tears from slipping free. The last thing she wanted was for Arthur to see her cry. If this were the last moment they'd ever see each other... she just... she just couldn't cry and leave him with that image and have it brew and stir and drown him over the years. That is... if the kid would be granted another chance at life.

Alexandra reached up a weak hand to take hold of the man's wrist though she doubted it would have any effect to loosen the grip he had on her.

It wasn't until she could feel the sharp pain of a gun being jabbed into her side that she kicked her tactics up a notch, her voice firming, though framed by a watery smile.

"Leave. I'll follow later. You just need to leave right now, sweetheart. Everything will be fine. It'll all be okay if you just leave and listen to these men, alright, baby? Be good and I'll see you later."

Alexandra was aware that Arthur knew she was lying. But he was young and afraid and thankfully his mind preferred to blind itself for just a moment, assuring Arthur to believe his mother and just have faith in what she'd requested of him.

How she hated to lie to him, how she feared that Arthur would never quite forgive her when grasping the deception she'd spewed just seconds ago.

However... That's what mothers do. They want their children to be happy and not have a worry in mind. Granted, white lies often took on scales that'd have them lean far more to a blackening, yet... Alexandra just wanted to spare him from any pain.

That's all she desired and she made sure to whisper this to the soldier who was breathing into her ear. Naturally he didn't reply to her whatsoever, refusing to ease her mind as she watched Arthur swallow down instincts in order to allow being pushed outside.

As Arthur reached the door, planting heels to keep still and looking over his shoulder with wide, wet eyes, Alexandra only widened her smile. His lips were white as he'd pressed them close, afraid to out a sound and more so refusing to return the false expression of hers. It broke her heart though she could do no more.

"I'll see you later, darling." Even as she'd managed to hold back tears, her voice broke mid-sentence and along with it Arthur's face fell into a grimace before he got shoved into the hallway hard-handedly. And that was it.

He was gone.

She could only stare at the few soldiers following her son out. She could only hear their footsteps descending the staircase until the front door of the building closed with a slam and drowned out her boy from her life.

Time to grief wasn't allowed as the hand around her throat released its grip in order to shove her harshly, having her topple down onto the floor. Alexandra barely processed the pain in her elbow on which she'd landed to break her fall and though tears finally streamed down her face because she'd lost a son to whom she hadn't even been able to say 'goodbye', she still found the fight within her to battle whichever soldier trying to pin her down.

A frail woman, emaciated and emotionally drained, was no match for any of the three men in the room, let alone when combined. She did fight, shouting and cursing, scratching any skin she could reach and kicking out her legs but when the 'Russian' booted her against the jaw, everything came to a halt.

The pain was protrusive and accompanied with a thousand little white stars dancing in her sight. Alexandra's mouth went numb immediately and the tangy taste of blood dripped down her throat and the back of her nose.

She coughed.

By now, her consciousness had grown exhausted and craved to slip into a deep sleep but for all that she was worth, Alexandra could not and would not pass out.

With a foot planted on her stomach, assuring she'd stay on the floor were she not desire to suffer a nauseating blow to her abdomen, the men stood around her.

Alexandra took deep, shaky breaths, fighting her mind as it seemed to blank out every other second, vision going black to blurry and back. Nonetheless, her eyes were focused enough to watch the three men sharing glances with one another, raising eyebrows and shrugging shoulders, grumbling foreign words.

The Caucasian guy who'd been smoking at the window with his Japanese comrade, stepped forward, flanking her legs with his feet and then started to unbuckle his belt. It was the clank of the buckle being undone that woke her violently from her dizziness and half-conscious state. She tried to scramble up but this only left her with yet another kick to the head.

Her vision flickered, white dots sparking around in sight and this time she could feel a warm liquid leaking from her nostril. Alexandra wasn't foolish enough to believe it was anything but blood.

At that moment she knew she'd not get out of this alive. She could feel this, rationally knew it even with her thoughts swimming around in a swollen brain and fractured skull.

However, she'd be damned to have these filthy pigs feel her up and rob her sense of self-worth before inevitably being sent into her grave.

It was one thing to be murdered. It was a whole other to be raped.

For a second she thought she'd not be able to fight this. There was barely strength left within her to lift a finger and her head spun so hard she could feel bile stinging low in her esophagus. Her face was numbed and she'd expected to be in more pain after having been kicked into the head two times.

But she barely processed any physical sensation, her system in shock and her blood rushing in a confused pattern not certain where to go. There were only thoughts, albeit messy and clipped. And then there were instincts which floated to the surface as Alexandra watched the man above her lower himself onto his knees, above her face.

The last thing she thought about was how happy she'd been with her husband and Arthur in the past, no matter how short-lived it had been... She'd been blessed and her family would never fail at curling up her lips into a smile. Nor would they ever not succeed in warming her heart.

The last thing she experienced were her teeth sinking into soft, smelly flesh, digging deep enough to feel skin break and rip, blood spilling from the injuries.

Alexandra reveled in the high-pitched screams of the soldier on top of her. He sounded like a pig being slaughtered and even though her hearing had gone muffled by the internal damage she'd suffered just moments ago, it was a grandly satisfying noise.

The last thing she tasted and smelled was blood and the red of it smeared across her teeth as she bared them in a wide smile.

Alexandra closed her eyes.

And a bullet between her eyebrows followed suite.

* * *

><p>Arthur analyzed the last hour in his mind repeatedly until he felt as if he were riding a merry-go-round of self-torture.<p>

The pace he was obliged to match with the two soldiers transporting him through London's maze of alleys, was unhurried and thus allowing him enough time and freedom to choke himself on his thoughts. Nevertheless his lungs ached with the cold sting of February mist and his windpipe rasped on each in- and exhale. His body was appreciative of the slow walk, though his mind could barely stand the suspense, the anticipation of what would happen to him.

Still, his brain continued rewinding, no matter the presence of enemies so nearby, nor the pain in his chest and back as his lungs seemed ready to blow at any second.

Arthur recalled the grief on his mother's face, which she'd hidden so bravely -yet poorly- behind a trembling smile and glossy eyes. Her last words maintained their repetitiveness like a broken record screeching in the boy's eardrums. Placing hands over his ears would not work -unfortunately enough- as her voice had planted its seed in the gray mass within his skull. It'd soon grow sprouts of antipathy and eventually blossom into detestation for his mother, himself and all human beings.

_'I'll see you later, darling.' _She'd promised.

The gunshot that had followed less than five minutes later had told Arthur otherwise. He'd known he'd never see her again. He knew she'd been killed and she had been aware of such... however had chosen to lie to him, nonetheless.

Such as she'd done with the death of Arthur's father, Alexandra had refused to spill truths and instead had coated him in a silence which only would get broken every now and then by lies.

The kid was aware his mother would never have bad intentions towards him. Her only mission in life had been to keep him safe and happy, but alongside this she had kept him dumb. The American pride that'd puff his chest when in confrontation, could not accept the fashion in which his mother had raised him.

He _had_ in the past.

Arthur loved his mother, would always love her... But as the bitterness had taken a hold of his conscience, the boy could no longer be soothed by the reassurance that she'd done what she'd believed was best for him.

Because well... he was here now, in the hands of the enemy, illness ready to drag him towards the grim reaper, with no one at his side to tug him back.

Good intentions, you see, did not always lead to good outcomes.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut for a second, trying to pinch away his headache, before glancing over his shoulder towards the two soldiers behind him who were having a rather heated discussion with one another.

It were happenings like these which prevented the boy from giving up just yet. His sense of survival and the sheer stubbornness alongside it, caused the boy to always be on a lookout for ways out, for plots and routes.

Hope wasn't how he'd describe it for this emotion was one he hadn't experienced in a genuine fashion for longer than he could recall. However, Arthur was a sore loser, fired up with disdain towards possible winners other than himself.

The two men behind him were currently winning and the boy was not going to let this happen without a fight.

With muscles tensed and his awareness as clear as it could get, Arthur remained calm as the three of them carried on walking over cobblestones towards a place or fate not yet known to the boy himself. Even with his passion, his spirit and urge to survive, Arthur was bright enough to await the right moment and not rush anything if not a hundred percent certain it'd lead to saving his own skin successfully.

A bullet, after all, would be quicker than his own feet could ever pace.

Carrying that thought in mind, Arthur peeked over his shoulder once more and eyed the rifles dangling off each of the soldiers' backs. He tried to calculate how much time it'd take for them to reach around, unlock, aim and fire.

The streets were empty, which could work in his favor for it'd be easier to run through the maze of back-streets. Nonetheless, it'd also be easier for the men to follow him, their legs being longer and stronger than Arthur's.

His eye caught the Japanese man's frown and he looked back in front of him when the soldier clacked his tongue at him in annoyance. They were moody but rather distracted as well with their argument. Going by how the hairs on the back of his neck rose, Arthur was fairly certain they were discussing a subject including -if not starring- himself.

Nerves and senses ached with the clarity he desperately kept at bay, The boy could not afford a second of losing his attention were he to plan to escape somehow, someway. Arthur's knees buckled every few steps and he could feel a fever crawling from his toes up to his spine. He had to try soon before his body gave out and he'd pass out in front of these two armed men.

About fifteen minutes in, the two soldiers stopped abruptly in their steps, one of them grabbed the back of the kid's collar in order to have him stand still as well. Over the past minutes their argument had seemed to intensify and though they had yet to shout at one another, Arthur could hear in the barks that they were moments away from a fight.

Turning around to watch the men scowl and growl at each other, faces growing red and noses scrunched up in snarls, Arthur took careful breaths to calm his heartbeat and focus on a way out.

The cold was biting at him but Arthur could feel the sweat rising to the surface as he grew hotter and weaker with whatever sickness it was that he'd been suffering from for weeks now. Whilst blinking the exhaustion from his eyes, Arthur watched the men flail their arms about, punctuating their words, the argument escalating into physical dominance which would hopefully lead to a fist-fight.

Three seconds later it did.

The taller one of the two slung his arm and his fist impacted with the other guy's cheek. The sound was dull and flat, unlike what Arthur had expected it to sound like. A silent stare-down followed and the boy kept dead-still because he'd seen the attention in the taller man... He knew he maintained an eye on him no matter the fight with his partner.

To his surprise the 'victim' turned around and left after having spat a phlegm onto the ground right in front of the other man's boots.

Being alone with this Jap was as scary as it was auspicious. Arthur leaned more to the prior of the two emotions as his eyes met those of the soldier who at that moment busied himself with reaching in his jacket to retrieve what Arthur feared to be a pistol or knife or anything else to slaughter him with in the middle of the streets and night.

Naturally, Arthur heaved a sigh when the man wiggled a pack of cigarettes between their gazes, a smirk on his lip, amused by the boy's fear.

They resumed their path after the Jap had lit one of the sticks, smoking in silence as he walked behind Arthur. This time, though, he'd chosen to wrap long fingers around both of Arthur's wrists, locking them together. The boy wasn't sure whether the Jap did this because he was unsure on his own and preferred to keep him restrained now that he hadn't a companion with them on the journey, or simply because he wanted physical contact to intimidate him. That last assumption seemed more likely as it'd be perceived foolish to not clasp the captive's wrists in secure hand-cuffs were the soldier to desire 'playing it safe'.

Either way, it was plain crudeness that influenced the man to start 'accidentally' stepping on the kid's heels every other second. Arthur winced each time, scowling behind his bangs and grinding his teeth. Anger coursed through his veins but even the rage boiling in his core could not prevent Arthur from coming up with a plan when the Jap started to nudge him in the backs of his knees with the fronts his own.

The physical contact caused an improvised plotting to seep into the boy's brain and he didn't second-guess himself whatsoever.

He went for it. Straight away.

When the Jap once more nudged him in the knee, Arthur went slack, head to toe. Obviously not having expected the extra weight as the boy's body sagged into a dead weight; the soldier's hand slipped from Arthur's wrists, though his reflexes were quick enough to have a fist wrapped in the back of the boy's sweater before his face could kiss the gravel beneath.

The Jap hesitated as he held him mid-air; confused, surprised and surely assuming the boy had passed out. Hence, when wrapping both arms around Arthur's waist to go and lift him up, his balance transcended into an off-kilter nonchalance.

Arthur calculated the strength and placement of the man holding him, chest plastered against his back. His body-heat found no difficulty traveling through the layers of fabric in order to warm up Arthur's skin. He felt as if he were on fire, everything burned and hurt and the kid realized he had to act quick before his body would simply cave.

Though the Jap was nearly twice his size (Arthur being a short little bud), armed overbearingly and not as sick as a dog, the young kid was convinced he could gain the upper-hand if he played dirty.

And that's exactly what he did the moment he could feel the man readjust his grip, off-balance, going to lift him up to his feet.

Thoughts flashed and jumped through the kid's brain within the second it took for him to act out his plan.

Arthur knew he had to escape. He knew there only awaited abuse and/or premature death were he to tag along with the enemy.

Arthur thought about his mother who'd been breathing oxygen to a heart that had pulsated warm blood through her veins only hours ago before she'd seized to exist. He thought about his father who'd been his hero from his own birth to the man's discriminatory death.

Memories played in front of his eyes like sceneries of the books he'd read in the past.

The perfect family. They'd been the perfect American family until the godforsaken English had ruined it all. Arthur had loved and had _been_ loved.

His roots were left behind to rot and to be filthied by the prints of Britain's heavy parade.

The -at one time- delicate novel of his childhood had been ripped chapter by chapter, page by page until the words had ended up scrambled and battered in the hands of the foe.

Arthur would rot in hell before allowing the opponent to rewrite his story.

Arthur would burn alive in the fire which once had roared through the whole of New York, undoubtedly having taken his old home with it. He'd die in the smoldering ashes of his ruined bedroom before he'd ever, EVER, allow a single man to reel him into capture and away from pride and freedom.

The boy huffed, heart beating so hard it felt as if it'd break his ribcage from the inside out at any given moment now.

It wasn't until the split second in which Arthur sensed the leverage to be on point that his eyes snapped open and his ears rang with an earlier forgotten memory of his father. His voice sounded clear within the shells as if he was standing next to him, right here and now. Though he'd forgotten a part of the man's voice, at this exact moment it was back, fully present and Arthur could feel his heart clench. Unlike his mother, Arthur's father had been a calm, calculated and rational soul. Nonetheless, he'd been a man of means, a warrior of standards and he'd taught Arthur early on that you always had a choice. That you always had something in your hands to work with. That you always were responsible for your own destiny, to a grand degree.  
>The man had taught Arthur that hard times weren't the problem in life, but more so the way one would deal with mentioned tough times could be exactly that; the problem.<p>

Or the _solution_.

"_Victim, or life's adventurer? … Which of the two are you?"_

He breathed the words of his father, dragging them over his dry tongue to chant them over and over again until the world came back into focus and an answer had been chosen. Arthur would never be the victim and thus he performed.

With eyes squeezed shut and memory chanted, Arthur folded his fingers together in a two-handed fist, collected the last of strength he had left in his sick body and then swung his elbow up- and backwards as hard as he could manage.

The assault had been a god-sent lucky shot. The man's cigarette flew from his mouth with a huff, sparks of ashes darting over glossy cobblestones before it sizzled in a puddle of rainwater. The soldier's voice broke into a guttural groan as he doubled over, letting go of Arthur so he could cup himself where Arthur's elbow had impacted.

For a split second Arthur wondered if the man had been unwillingly castrated because of him. And without guilt or conscience, the boy hoped he had.

Arthur collected himself in order to start running but to his horror could feel the soldier's arms re-wrap around his waist. The hold was pathetically weak as he tried to lift him but ended up tripping forwards and on another impulse the kid threw back his head. The crunch that followed was loud and for a second Arthur didn't know whether he'd fractured his own skull or had broken the man's nose (such as he'd hoped for).

Arthur dropped onto the floor as the tall man let go in order to retreat and when he looked over his shoulder, grew slightly nauseated at the sight of the Jap holding his nose out of which blood seemed to gush, spilling over his mouth, hands and throat.

In the past he'd heard of how men of the army often used drugs in order to be alert at all times and to need far less rest for the amount of battles they'd fight and confrontations they'd experience. Medication often thinned blood and even though Arthur couldn't care less if this man would die or not, it was still obscene to see how much of the crimson liquid could leak from a face.

When the Jap toppled down onto the ground, difficulty deciding whether to cup his broken nose or assaulted groin, and started to cry like a child; Arthur took a deep breath, cleared his head and fled.

He darted into the first side-street on his path and then Arthur ran, ran, ran harder and longer than he'd ever could've imagined himself being capable of.

His mind was joyous over his victory, even though he could barely grasp the fact he'd actually escaped! He glanced over his shoulder a couple of times but could see no sign of anyone following him.  
>The amount of luck on his side was blissfully high.<p>

With a body a tad too small for a thirteen year old, Arthur squeezed himself through the narrowest of gaps between houses and dumpsters. He led a maze which the soldier -were he to recover- would never be able to follow. Arthur knew the short-cuts, the crooks and corners and before he knew it he'd reached the other far end of his block.

However, he did not stop.

His lungs burned as his chest heaved, his legs wanted to cramp as they were demanded to move so fast, muscles constantly sore by the lack of food, sleep and medical care for months to no end.

But he kept going.

His skin prickled hot and cold, his head was filled with cotton and his sight was hazed. Arthur's heart fluttered with adrenaline but as well elation.

And he kept going.

Arthur continued to run, making his way through the maze of London's back-streets which were now empty unlike only an hour ago. He was lucky. So damn lucky. His survival instinct voiced over the pessimism deeper within which already started to ask '_why_'... Why live. What for?

As the boy ran, he thought of his mother, thought of his father, thought of his future.

He was alone, and the world was far more cruel than he had ever expected it to be.

Yet, he maintained. Couldn't stop.

He had to live, even if only for vengeance. Arthur felt a human desire to survive and it was an emotion with such intensity that he doubted he'd ever experience a sensation as breathtaking as this one, today.

This was the night in which Arthur became self-aware, in which Arthur grasped the meaning of trust and independence. And in which he taught himself how to look further than his nose was long.  
>It was the night that took a great part of the child within him away. But as well did a greater side of him topple into a premature adulthood that only could be witnessed within those who'd suffered in their existence.<p>

That night, until the sun began to rise, Arthur didn't cry nor did he grieve.

He realized that though life would always take and never give, it was but a challenge for him to fight and win what he **deserved**.

For what his mother and father had deserved, yet lost.

**Life.**


	3. Part II - Eames

**PART II.**

**EAMES.**

_London, England.  
>January, 2070.<em>

_two years later._

"Colonel?"

The voice, though it was soft, wavering and uncertain, broke rather easily through Eames' focus which had been directed at one of the many case-files he'd been working on for months. Though he welcomed the interruption from the tasks at hand which he'd been procrastinating for far too long, Eames still optioned to display some degree of annoyance. Thus, with a huff, he placed thumb and index-finger over his closed eyelids, trying to press away the headache that had been occupying his skull, overstaying its visit, for days if not weeks.

"What is it, Jack?" Eames questioned the young man's visit, voice gruff, before glancing at his guest from the corner of his eye.

The kid, Jack, stood still for a moment, his mouth gaping and closing like a fish on the dry and Eames reveled in the power he possessed to have men doubt their own skin when so little as being glared at by him. Granted, Jack was barely in his mid-twenties and seemed to have a subdued nature to him. Sadistically enough, this was one of the perfect components to mix up with Eames' instinctive dominance and self-taught confidence.

Such as Eames had foreseen, the young soldier snapped his mouth shut after his fifth attempt to pronounce whichever sentence it was that he'd wanted to form.

Most likely a question... Even more predictably a request that would lower Eames' mood beyond the depths it would be settled twenty-four seven.

Exhaling heavily through his nose, Eames proceeded to avert his sight and have mercy on the guy's (already poor excuse of a) nerve-system. The Colonel leaned back in his seat, spreading his legs wide and taking hold of the toothpick which rested between his lips.

The small wooden stick had been splintered by one of his canines only seconds ago at the disruption by his visitor. It was safe to say the man was often on edge, and he did have good reasons for this. However, it was still obnoxious to be startling every other second, no matter how good he'd become at hiding his reactions (physical jolts included).  
>Eames, after having removed the pick, clenched his jaws and lifted a questioning eyebrow as he prodded his chin on his knuckles.<p>

Jack had always been shy with Eames. For all the attitude and green professionalism he seemed to possess when he thought his Colonel was not in the same room with him, he sure as hell lacked all capability of proper human interaction when their eyes locked.  
>He couldn't blame him. And the lad certainly wasn't the only one who cowered in the Colonel's towering presence.<p>

The young man stuttered for a moment, cheeks red, before he finally was able to form a coherent contribution.

"They're ready, Colonel." Jack shared as he fidgeted with the hem of his pullover. Eames watched the long fingers curling themselves in the worn fabric for a moment before withdrawing his gaze. He inhaled deeply to calm the agitation that urged to boil to the surface because of his soldier's nervosity.

Jack wasn't a lot of things, but he especially was not ready to be thrown into battle even though he'd completed most of his training by now. But, such as mentioned before, perhaps it was only when around Eames that Jack acted like a kicked puppy. The Brit had seen the young man in situations where he'd not been aware of Eames' presence and he'd appeared to be pretty capable of looking after himself.  
>There'd been a moment in the distant past when Eames had suspected the brunet to have feigned a coyness in order to have Eames go easy on him. However, the Colonel didn't go easy on anyone and Jack's awkward attitude occurred to Eames of being impossible to fake.<p>

"They-" Eames left the word hanging. In favor of finishing the sentence he optioned to frown dramatically as he turned to look over his shoulder at the clock on the wall behind him. With his head still turned, he glanced back at Jack and pointed up at the cheap time-teller.

"Be a good lad and tell me what time it is." His demand was spoken with a calm voice and though Jack was aware Eames actually _could_ read clocks, it was apparent that there wasn't sign of amusement to be found within the sarcastic remark. Hence, the young man wasn't fooled to start laughing even though Eames could tell Jack would give anything to break the tension with a nervous chuckle.

"It's-uh. It's one o'clock, Colonel Eames."

The Englishman resisted an urge to roll his eyes at Jack's poor attempt to soothe his temper with adding his name to his title.  
>"One in the morning, huh?"<p>

After a couple of seconds of silence, Jack seemed to jump on the spot as he came to realize it hadn't been a rhetorical question (or well, not a _genuine_ one, so to say). The brunet nodded, his hair bouncing, as he muttered an embarrassed '_yes colonel_', Straight after he swallowed and Eames heard the dryness of his gulp.

"Couldn't this have waited until tomorrow, Jack?" Eames turned to face the soldier, noticing with improper satisfaction how the young man's shoulders hunched and lips tightened at the mentioning of his name. There was something about being on first-name bases with a person that either turned into intimacy or intimidation (if not both). Well, if Eames were involved, that is.

"I-uh." Jack stammered once more and Eames asked himself why it was that new soldiers being thrown in Britain's military seemed to only get younger and more thick-headed with each year that passed. Perhaps, these days, they served more as a visual feast than they did capable warriors. After all, in spite of the war having yet to come to an end, it had all gotten rather one-sided in England's favor. There was no chance for Britain to get damaged any time soon. The heads of lands lay low, awaiting either permittance to attack or the news that it was the day for all to return home to their families. That is if there were still members left.

Either way, Eames' land was holding the cards and very much aware of the enemy's -weak- hand.

The Colonel, when traveling his eyes down over Jack's body, had to admit the kid was easy on the eyes. Such as a glass of quality Whiskey could veil Eames' day in a shade of calm, the physical beauty of some was able to shush his raging brain. Even -mostly- for just seconds.  
>However, it always seemed to be <em>liquor<em> causing Eames to spend too much time in bed, appreciative of the drunken haze. Never men, or women. They brought along too many complications, often carrying enough baggage to have Eames' profound headaches last a life-time. Alcohol on the other hand -also headaches- never talked back and hadn't an attitude to piss Eames off in royal amounts.

Don't get him wrong.

In a distant past, the Colonel had suffered through relationships -the longest of which had lasted a month- but no one had possessed the antidote for the man's toxic brain. He'd tried, though. Women _and _men. However, that had been in a time Eames could hardly recall, back when he'd yet to accept his self-deprecation and consented solitude.

Had he met Jack 'back in the day', it wouldn't have ended well for either of them. With those wide eyes and that permanent blush which could either mean shyness or arousal, it was apparent that Jack was easy to intimidate.  
>Eames would've had him subdued within minutes, and the kid's consent would've gotten lost along the way. There wasn't a chance Jack would ever say '<em>no<em>' to a brute like Eames. And well, back then, the Colonel hadn't exactly been an understanding angel when it came to sexual encounters. In his own eerie and charming fashion, Eames could talk people into doing pretty much anything. He was a master-manipulator and had often made people believe they wanted one thing when actually they had wanted the other. It were these 'tactics' that had gotten even the most doubtful into the man's bed.  
>They'd always been willing... at the moment itself.<p>

Nonetheless, those days were over. _That_ Eames had been stifled, shoved somewhere far away in the back of his mind where it'd remain for as long as Eames would be capable of keeping that door locked.

"My apologies, Colonel." Jack's voice interrupted Eames' guilt-trip down memory-lane.  
>"It's just that we didn't want to make you wait any longer, you see." The young man excused himself, straightening his back, pulling back his shoulders and clenching his jaws in -what he undoubtedly thought to be- a display of confidence. Dearest Jack had been eager to impress Eames ever since he'd arrived in London, about two years ago.<p>

Why? Eames still didn't know. Only thing coming to mind was some proper family-related issues as Jack had grown up without parents after his father had been thrown in jail for killing off his wife; Jack's mother. Hence, this kid needed stability in his life, and most likely looked up to Eames in a son-to-father manner.

"We?" Eames repeated, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as his elbow had planted itself on the desk.

"You're dragging everyone else into this to excuse yourself, are you?" He teased the soldier, however did not change his expression other than deepen his frown, preventing the young man of believing Eames wasn't about to blow his brains out. Perhaps it was a bit of punishment for having caused Eames' mind to wander to the more darker corners of his past which he normally avoided like the plague.

Jack gaped at the question and even from this distance, as Eames was sat behind his desk and the soldier stood in the doorway, he could see his pupils dilate as if his brain was strangling itself a way out.

"N-no, Colonel, it's not that, it's just that-"

"Talking back now, are we?"

"No! No! I swear, I just-"

Eames allowed a smirk to form behind the finger curled in front of his mouth and watched, amused, as Jack's eyes widened impossibly larger before a nervous cackle tumbled from between his lips.  
>This kid, god, he was as daft as that one girl Eames had dated back when he'd been in his twenties. The girl who'd been convinced that a pound of feathers would reach the ground later than a pound of lead were they both to be dropped from a building at the same time. Though stupidity was a turn-off, Eames had still fucked her more than once because the man had a weak-spot for pale skin and raven-black hair and she'd had all that and then some. He couldn't remember her name, though. Not important.<p>

"Calm down, Jack." Eames scolded when he'd managed to brush his scattered thoughts back together in a messy heap. His smirk had fallen from his face as quickly as it had appeared. Amongst the Brit's patience, his attention-span as well seemed to lose length from its fuse as the seasons passed him by. Honestly, the Colonel wasn't even that aware about whether this was because he was so disinterested in everything life had to offer, or just because he'd killed off a third of his brain with alcohol and emotional trauma.

Jack took on his beaten-puppy look, unknowingly for sure, and Eames was happy to push the blame of his panic over to the other man eventhough it'd been the Englishman himself who'd lured the other into the argument in the first place.

"Well,-" Eames began as he stretched before leaning back in his seat with hands folded behind his head.  
>"I've waited a couple of months. Could've waited a few more hours, don't you think?" He crossed his ankles, body languid like a feline as he eyed Jack through his lashes.<p>

He could practically hear the gears turning in the young man's head, saw his eyes shift around the room before carefully resting their gaze upon Eames' face. The Colonel could tell Jack was using the good ol' '_look a man between the eyebrows to feign eye-contact_' tactic. Eames had studied non-verbal methods of exchanging information as well as communication through facial expressions. He could easily tell when someone was lying, could easily read emotions even when the carrier of them did their absolute best to hide them.  
>So, he observed, drank in the image of the young man's fingers folding open and close, weight shifting from one leg to the other and lips pressed shut so tightly they'd turned white.<p>

It didn't take a genius to see that the soldier was going through various answers in his mind and seemingly was biting off a lot of words, swallowing down accusations and-or excuses.  
>So, before he'd even spoken, Eames knew Jack would simply apologize, deciding that that was the safest option.<p>

"I'm sorry, Colonel." His voice was even softer than before, head bowing in shame though Eames was convinced Jack hadn't even had a say in _when_ exactly to notify Eames of the news. The Brit couldn't decide whether he was appreciative of the kid's discreetness to keep opinions to himself and not shove the blame on someone else or if he was annoyed at his lack of back-bone. Jack could easily put the blame on some of his superiors, but he didn't. Afraid of his Colonel no matter if he'd share truth or lies.

Without disregarding or acknowledging the man's apology, Eames rose from his seat, eyes diverting their gaze off Jack.

The soldier visibly relaxed once Eames' attention targeted more important matters, such as getting ready to face the winter-night.

He threw a scarf around his neck before going to fetch his coat from a clothes-hanger to the right of the doorway. Jack was clever enough not to recoil within the close proximity of his Colonel, having experienced in the past how the man's temper would ignite at such signs of disrespect.

Not that Eames took note of this. Not now.  
>His playfulness had passed and no longer was he interested in messing around with the kid. There was not much, whether it be living beings or inanimate objects, that were capable of maintaining Eames' attention for a generous amount of time.<p>

Eames, overall, was a bored man and this showed in his regular alcohol abuse, chain-smoking and unhealthy diet of caffeine and foods pumped with preservatives. Well, not that there was much of a choice when it came to the latter. Fresh foods were scarce and ridiculously expensive.

Eames shrugged his shoulders as he pulled on his double-breasted coat, walking back to his desk to fetch some weaponry.

"Get my men ready." He demanded, voice firm but low in volume, not bothering to look over his shoulder at Jack and instead checking the ammo inside the heavy gun he was holding.

"Already done, Colonel." Jack shared and Eames was sure he could hear a smug-undertone to his high-pitched voice. Securing his favored Smith & Wesson into the holster strapped around his shoulders, the Englishman glanced over his shoulder at Jack and could indeed see some arrogant amusement lingering at the edges of his features.  
>It somehow aged his face.<p>

Cheeky git.

"My, my. Extraordinary." The Colonel murmured with a smile that hardly met his gray eyes and resembled more of a wolfish snarl than it did an appreciative upward curling of lips.

"Thank you, Colonel." Jack positively beamed at Eames, very much unaware of what the man was capable of if taunted the 'right' way. Eames wondered if the soldier was throwing the same sarcasm he'd used on him back into his face... He didn't seem bright enough to so much as grasp a dry sense of humor.

It wasn't that he was much bothered about Jack's arrogance, because he knew it was hardly intentional... the kid was just bloody daft, wasn't he. Couldn't help it, really.

Nevertheless, you see, Eames had a reputation to keep up and thus he glared at the soldier until the smile dropped off his face and his body curled into itself, growing inches shorter within seconds.

_'Good_'.'

The Colonel placed his visor-cap on his head, his side-comb already ruined because he'd been tugging his hair in frustration for the past five hours of working on one of his most challenging cases. Jack watched him intensively, a mix of wariness and awe on his features.

Eames ignored him as he passed him by.

Granted, when stepping out into the hallway, his four men who served as body-guards and right-hands, were stood in stiff posture. Their voices chimed synchronously as they wished Eames a '_good evening_'. The Colonel nodded in greeting though his face remained grim before it distorted into a scowl, noting Jack's absence.

"Jack, for God's sake-" He growled as he turned around to the young man still standing in the doorway, staring, and grabbed the front of his pullover. The brunet took a breath and Eames tugged him out of the passageway before slamming its door shut. Eames could swear this kid's mind worked slower than a ninety-nine-year-old Alzheimer patient's recognition of distant relatives did.

"S-sorry." The boy squawked and though his hands twitched to take hold of Eames' wrist, he stayed still, lowering his eyes. Eames noted the almost-feverish blush on Jack's cheekbones and smirked to himself.

He was entertainment, this kid, but also a trigger to Eames' poor management on his aggression. But for all he was worth (and that wasn't much) Jack lacked a fire within in order to challenge Eames.

He was too easy. Often boring. Too willing. Too young. Too afraid to ever put up a fight.  
>The kid was an annoying mixture of not being rude enough for Eames to slap him across the face and nor was he bland enough to bore Eames to no end.<p>

"Good lad." Eames muttered, patting down the crinkles his fists had created in the fabric of Jack's dirty-green pullover.

"Lead the way then."

After another harsh pat on the young man's chest -causing him to stumble-, Eames stepped back and allowed the soldier to pass him by, which he did, hastily.

As they paced through the hallways of Eames' secure, underground lair, the Brit's thoughts drifted away to what was about to take place. He was as excited as he was disgusted, had always had mixed feelings towards what he was about to do.  
>But bosses had bosses and alongside his own superiority came an obligation to follow in the footsteps of those possessing even more power than men leading the forces to protect the country.<p>

This being said, Eames could've never prepared himself for what this night had to offer. He could've never been aware of how life-changing the choices he'd be making in mere hours would actually be.

Not to mention, the impact it'd all would have on his very own person, changing anything he believed in and everything he thought to be.

* * *

><p>Their strut echoed against the cobble-stoned walls. Eames' eyes rested lazily on the back of Jack's head who'd been stupid enough to still be leading the way even though their destination could be seen at the end of the hallway. But the Colonel was too far gone in his own head to notice the indecency of someone walking in front of a superior when not being a body-guard.<p>

He was surrounded by the sounds of the soldiers' boots treading over concrete and the clicks and ticks of their rifles which were slung over shoulders. In spite of the ambient noise, the cacophony in his mind always gained the upper-hand, and tonight was no different.

Eames wasn't aware of his surroundings -auto-pilot legs carrying him through the hallway- and instead had his mind mangling itself on the fact that he'd be returning home that same night with a human being as his servant, his petty slave to use and abuse as he pleased.  
>Slavery had found its installment within Britain and various countries across the world. Men (never women) who were ranked above their citizens in terms of wealth, fame and power, were obligated to purchase human servants. Whereas it'd always been self-evidently to consume marriage and spawn children, in today's age owning human servants was as normal as the white-picket-fence life had once been in the past.<br>Sure, you could turn around, walk against the stream and refuse to swim along. However, that just held ten times the risk of you drowning. Not participating in today's slavery wasn't illegal persé, but neither was it 'just' frowned upon. 'T was worse than that, with its risks of having one labeled as an outcast. The moment you started descending society's ladder, tumbling down various ranks, it could have you end up exiled, or worse... Much worse.

It had started as a foul plot to shame the United States. Eames remembered when the war had been raging for about half a year; more and more Yanks infiltrating England every week. They'd be disguised as kind-hearted women with chubby-cheeked children, their husbands carrying amateurish foreign accents to hide away their American tongue.  
>Not only did they smuggle themselves into the Englishmen's houses, elbowing the natives out of their own damn shelters, but they as well planned and acted out inside attacks. Simple, American peasants, thinking they could just immigrate into Great Britain and kill off its national citizens.<p>

That's when human-trafficking began taking on a great market and it wasn't long after that when the leaders announced that Americans were to be killed on sight (even by Brits who did not participate in the army or so much as had a license for owning firearms) or to be locked up anywhere an Englishman would desire to have their nation's enemy. Around that time, slavery had been legalized, allowing anyone who'd been born in Britain and owned a citizen permit, to own one slave per household.  
>A snowball-effect followed suite in which it quickly had been allowed to own slaves of any nationality, except for the English.<br>Few months later the laws again got adjusted to having slavery legalized no matter what, the only thing on an owner's mind being to pay the taxes for owning servants.

About twelve months passed in which the loose laws got abused to a point where anyone had been foe and the riots on the streets grew out of control.

Hence, they'd upped the taxes. Again and again until the day in which it was impossible to be able to afford a slave -were you not a man of importance, of means and of blessed wealth- had arrived.

It had all begun out of a stubborn pride and a heinous hunger to humiliate the enemy to a point where death seemed more glamorous than anything else being thrown at them.

Today, it was the most blindly accepted cruelty within various countries which had followed Britain's example mindlessly, like lapdogs eager to be cooed.

The world had not only come to a stop during the third World War, but more so it had rewind itself to centuries ago. The earth had been ruined beyond repair. The simplest things of the not-so-distant past were no more; mobile phones, television, Internet and... basic human rights had come and gone.

Now, the idiocy of human kind had _grown_ over the past decade to a point where a bright future appeared absolutely impossible, even beyond repent.

Everyone existed but none lived.

The border between rich and poor only continued to expand, rapidly, globally.

And the border between empathy and cruelty was no more.

The poor rarely survived long enough to lay eyes upon grand-children. Rebels, violence, starvation, ill-aimed bullets and illnesses (for which only the rich could afford medication), prematurely killed them off.  
>As for those holding power and money, they were expected -if not forced- to follow the rules laid upon them by presidents and dictators. To some degree, people such as Eames were less free than the humans sleeping in the streets; killing rats with their bare hands because food was that scarce. Eames couldn't imagine how horrible and disgusting it must be to be a mere peasant in the after-math of the globe-scaled demolition.. But then, did he have it so much better? Did he have any more choice of which life to live than the poor did?<p>

Doubtful.

These tiny, paranoid assumptions, went hand-in-hand with the side of Eames that was grossed out by the thought of 'owning' a human being. However, he'd already been putting it off for the past two years. Saito was starting to get doubts about Eames' true '_warrior-spirit_', as he liked to call it.

The last thing Eames wanted to accomplish was to disappoint England's leader, alas the man to which he was the Right-Hand, alas the man who'd taken him under his wing when he'd just been a kid, having lost both his parents, surviving on the streets which had yet to be ripped apart by the upcoming war.

It was safe to say Saito was a bit of a father to him, though a strict one. Saito wasn't one to take anyone's bullshit, he didn't forget and did not have mercy on those who were guilty and considered the land's shame. Their twenty-four years together did not mean Saito went easy on him and he'd gotten fed up with the Colonel's excuses for not needing a servant, nor a pet, nor his very own charge-less whore.

It was just how it went in the present day. It was a normal assumption to possess that the rich had some poor street-rat living in their home (though often exclusively in a cellar or attic, if not a poorly-isolated stable). They weren't even hard to find. Young and old would try to budge in with a wealthy person, just so they could have a full belly, a warm bed and medication which they often did need after having lived on the virus-infested streets.

What mothers chose to ignore, when dumping their young children at doorsteps of well-maintained homes, was the great amount of physical and sexual abuse taking place behind those deluxe, closed doors. _They knew_. Everyone knew. Heck, the children themselves knew... But still... it just, well, … it just happened every day again.

Eames shuddered, bitterly amused at the fact that the thought of children being abused affected him more than the memories he had of the many people he'd murdered in the name of independence and liberty. They hadn't all been clean shots to the head, either.  
>Though it had been years ago, Eames would never be able to forget those he'd killed with his bare hands. Those were always harder on him than the ones having had an impersonal bullet drilled into their flesh and organs. They were even more difficult to digest than the nightmares he had of knifing out the guts of his victims. Those dreams were not at all fantasized but just replays of his past.<p>

Eames wished he could pretend that the heavy weight on his shoulders was a coat of repentance and empathy. Nothing was less true than that lie he told himself every day when he stared into the mirror, grimacing at the pale shell of a man in front of him.  
>He was drowning in his own guilt, his disgust for who he's been and still was.<p>

Besides never having killed women or children, and never having forcefully raped any being; dead or alive; human or animal, Eames still had earned himself the throne in Hell with the sins he'd committed.

He wasn't a good man. Charm and wit be damned. Eames despised himself at least as much as his enemies did and perhaps this daily self-martyred state of mind had convinced him to just do what Saito had urged him to do. After all, it couldn't get much worse than this.

He'd to get some in-her-thirties woman to clean his place, cook his food and wash his clothes during the day, and keep him company during the night; be it sexual or not.  
>The man comforted himself with the fact that most of these modern slaves consented to their own torture. Anything was better than living on the cold, snow-covered streets with only the memory of your lost loved ones and suddenly-tastefully-looking cockroaches there to keep you company.<br>He just needed to pick carefully because he knew he had a tendency to burst out in fits of violence when taunted, disrespected or disobeyed. The safest option was a female, drained from life with no one left to return to. He needed a woman, because Eames knew it'd take him great fucking amounts of rebellion before he'd so much as raise his voice at one. He needed one in grief, a broken spirit to accompany her vague memories of people that used to be in her life.

Yes.  
>Eames needed to pick the most timid servant out of the bunch. It was of utmost importance to leave his hunger for a challenge, his desire for some passion and spark, way back home, buried six-feet under with the heaviest block of concrete on top of the grave to prevent those particular desires from <em>ever<em> resurrecting.

Besides, Eames just didn't want to disappoint the man with whom he'd shared years of hatred towards the Americans and an outstandingly fanatic appreciation of eating rice and raw fish from a woman's body with.  
>So, his back was plastered against the wall, no way to get out any longer. It was best to just get it over with.<p>

"Colonel." Both soldiers guarding the door greeted Eames in sync -their stomps as well perfectly matching the other- when he came to a stop in front of a heavy-looking wooden portal. Deep bows followed, Japanese etiquette beaten into the English since day one of Saito coming to lead this hierarchy.

The Englishman nodded curtly, staring at the door behind which his future slave would be present amongst about a dozen more contenders, for lack of better words.

Jack, thank hell, had gotten it in his thick skull to await further instruction, standing behind Eames. All of the soldiers in the hallway waited patiently for Eames to enter the room. However, the man took his time, feigning nonchalance when he actually was trying to calm his nerves and reeling his facade back up from the pits of self-doubt which he'd tossed it in.

He brought a hand up to his right ear, retrieving a brand-new toothpick which he placed between his full lips. His permanent nervosity urging his oral fixation to chew something, anything, to calm him down.

Eames' eyes traveled to one of the guards at the door, nodding when he caught his gaze. The young man opened the door, stepping aside simultaneously to allow two of Eames' bodyguards to enter the room. The Colonel straightened his back and lolled his head for a second until he could feel the bones in his neck pop pleasantly.

Clasping his gloved hands behind his back, Eames strutted into the small room, his soldiers at his heel in case there'd be a need for protection.

"Gentlemen." Eames spoke as he'd entered the room, eyes scanning the ridiculous amount of soldiers in the small space. His men greeted him back, short and firm.  
>He nodded softly, taking his time to lock eyes with every veteran in the room, letting them know he was aware of the presence of every single one of them, which could be perceived as either motivational or worrisome to these youngsters so eager to impress.<p>

As Eames rolled his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, he removed his visor-cap, discarding it on the four fingers Jack had already reached out.  
>His coat followed suite, draped over the man's other arm, along with his scarf.<p>

Freed from the articles,, Eames walked farther into the room, taking in the wooden walls and dusty bar at the far left. The space wasn't large but all furniture, except for a few chairs in a corner, had been removed. Most likely this had been done in order to lessen the claustrophobic atmosphere caused by the dark wood against walls and on the floor. The light-bulb overhead didn't help either, the yellow glow so poor it darkened the corners of the space to a pitch-black and Eames was sure that he'd grow sleepy, like an old man, were he to stay here for a couple of hours.

"At ease." The Colonel commanded when setting sight on the aged bottles of liquor on glass shelves behind the bar. He licked his lips, stabbing his own tongue on his toothpick like an uncoordinated idiot.  
>He exhaled softly as his men relaxed their shoulders and leaned their weight on one of two feet or against the nearest walls. He took hold of the toothpick, poking behind a tad-too-sharp of a canine as he glanced to his left, automatically -<em>predictably<em>- meeting Jack's eye.

"Jack." Eames spoke softly, demanding everyone to be still, quiet and to pay greatest attention to what he was saying. A beneficial aspect to whispering. Whereas often people would think shouting caused others to actually listen and pay attention, it was a soft volume that truly carried the factor of self-confidence and intimidation, which had a person's skins crawl and ears perk.

"Colonel." Jack affirmed, as he took a few steps towards his superior, eyes bright and wide, void of any exhaustion.  
>'<em>Bloody youngsters<em>' Eames growled to himself, his aging body envious of the soldier's energy. That lust for life which you'd lose when passing your mid-thirties.  
>Or maybe that was just Eames, who'd grown more bitter as the years came and went. Now, at thirty-five, the Englishman wondered how long it would take before his mind and body would cave. Even more so; which one would be first? Sleeping on the ground in deserts which turned ridiculously cold at night (as if to make up for the even more preposterous heat during the day) had not helped his joints or bones. Not yet forty, but Eames already suffered from the weekly ache in the knee or a stiffness in an elbow.<br>And then there were those days he felt as if he'd been set on fire and run over by a train, twice.

Luckily for him, and the other men around him, he wasn't feeling all too bad today, except for the familiar exhaustion which he hadn't been able to catch up to for the past_ years. _Though the man's fuse was always ridiculously short; not being in physical pain did slow down the flame.

"Fetch me a Scotch, there's a lad." Eames curtly commanded, his voice layered thickly with contempt. Jack obeyed immediately, discarding his Colonel's coat and hat on a rusty clothes-hanger behind the bar, before diving into cupboards in search of Eames' preferred alcohol.  
>He was always happy to please, never that affected by Eames' more subtle ways to put him down. If the Colonel wasn't outright yelling at the soldier, there was little chance Jack would so much as grasp that his superior wasn't fond of him one bit.<p>

Eames frowned at the noise of porcelain and glass being moved around.

With the obnoxious lad occupied and the prospect of an intoxicating beverage coming his way; Eames finally found it within himself to turn on his heel and have his eyes travel over the row of people in the middle of the room.  
>There were twelve potential slaves present, standing side to side, heads bowed, arms to their sides. The space was cold, but still they'd only gotten dressed in off-white knickers and wife-beaters. Their feet, all of them equally dirty, didn't so much as have a sock to protect the soles from the dusty, splintery boards that layered the floor.<p>

See, now this is where Eames' two-sided masochism came to be. These lads and lasses were hardly any better than the scum on the street, better yet, Eames was sure that at least half of them _were_ street-rats. And certainly there were Americans present as well, there always were.  
>But for all that Eames was an arrogant asshole, there was a side to him which could not turn a blind eye at the unfairness of young people -American or not- living without family, coughing themselves to a prepubescent death were they not to be taken by men eager to molest their scrawny bodies.<br>The least they could do was to put some fucking shoes on them.

Eames watched the slaves, one by one, noting pale toes, trembling bodies, droopy noses and white puffs of smoke as they'd exhale.

Jack interrupted the path his eyes had been taking and Eames took the glass of Scotch from him, nodding to dismiss his further company.  
>The room was deadly quiet as Eames took a sip from the liquor, having to scrape his throat right after because of its aged spice. He hummed at the strong taste, removing his toothpick and flicking it to the ground before he stepped closer to the line of people.<p>

A shiver rolled down his spine, not at all caused by the chilliness within the four walls. Eames wasn't comfortable with picking a living being from their family and life. But this messy task had to be fulfilled. Saito'd waited long enough for this, had given Eames far more time than he'd ever grant other men below him.

He downed the rest of his drink, reaching the empty glass into a direction he believed Jack would be, as his own eyes stayed focused on the first person in the quiet line. Jack relieved him from the tumbler before stepping back to his place against the wall, squeezed between fellow soldiers.  
>Eames wasn't one to grow claustrophobic that easily, but he had to admit, this room was too bloody small for over twenty people to be occupying it.<p>

"Any Americans?" Eames asked.

The shuffling of paper filled the room immediately, agitating Eames for it meant the task-dealer of slave-collecting hadn't even taken the time to deepen himself into the servants' backgrounds. He glared at the soldier across the room, line of sight high enough to reach over the lowered heads of the slaves stood in between.

The man was named Eric, or Rick, maybe Erin? Eames couldn't remember, but he did not forget faces and he knew that the German man was one of the biggest pieces of shit under his direct command. Eames had been waiting for this man to make one single mistake so he could finally throw his ass to the curb and never witness the coward's face ever again.

It was known that the German had assaulted women on multiple occasions, though Saito did not find this a legitimate reason to fire or so much as punish the guy.

The German scraped his throat, flicking some papers in the large file-case before finally straightening up and meeting Eames' eye.

"No, Colonel." And after a hesitant pause-  
>"We've got in our company; Two French, one Belgian, seven English and two Italians.<p>

Eames quirked one eyebrow. Italians were rare in London.

"I'm guessing this one?" Eames asked with a curious tone to his voice as he pointed at the young woman who stood at the left end of the row. With her dark-brown hair and olive-skin, it was a safe guess, especially when noting the paleness and blonds in the room, present in great majority.

The German looked down at his papers for a split second before nodding.

"Yes, Colonel."

Eames nodded, attention settled as he walked closer to her, coming to a halt in front of the woman. He left enough room to not intrude on her personal space, though he doubted it'd do anything to soothe the obvious fear that caused her body to ripple with tremors continuously.  
>He reached out a hand, pausing when the woman flinched, her body leaning away from him.<br>To emphasize how raw the law was today, Eames was aware that her cowering alone gave him enough right to slap her across the face. He'd never get scolded for it, not even by Saito. Heck, he could beat her unconscious and it'd still be justified because he was in a leading position and thus blindly trusted to make the right decisions. To dispense the appropriate punishment.  
>Eames hushed her like he'd do with a skittish animal and lightly took hold of her chin to tilt her head up. The blackness of his leather gloves clashed with the tan on her skin.<p>

She was beautiful alright. High cheekbones, prominent lips and black eyes, leaving no doubt she was anything but Caucasian.  
>Her eyes did not leave the floor (a smart move) and when Eames tilted her chin further she closed them in order to avoid all eye-contact.<br>Part of Eames pitied her. And part of him relished the fear he could infest in human beings of any age, any gender, any nationality. Safe to say he got off on power, which was a dangerous fetish on its own.

The Brit retreated his hand abruptly, watching the woman's head loll forwards, her chin now tucked tightly against her throat.

"Read me the crimes of all." Eames commanded Eric-Erin-something, as he began to pace along the row of people, observing their reactions as they could see the man's feet pass them by at a slow pace, proximity too close. The man had folded his hands behind his back, trying to soothe the urge to have a fag (which he'd forgotten back in his office).

It wasn't often that his men did not succeed at capturing Americans. Foolishly enough Eames believed he'd find it easier to 'own' an enemy rather than his own people or those from countries who'd fought alongside England. However, there weren't any Yanks to claim and thus the man decided to have a listen to the crimes they'd committed and hopefully pick out the biggest bastard of them all.

It was likely there'd not be anything surprising on the list which the German had started to read out. After all, these 'slaves' would get snatched off the streets to distribute in human-trafficking if they would so much as snaffle a loaf of bread.

"Miss on your farthest left is named Isabella Munoz. Twenty-eight years of age. There's no illnesses spotted so far and her nature is subdued, easy-to-handle, so to say." The German paused, eying Eames warily before continuing.  
>The Colonel had a tendency to burst out into anger without showing any signs beforehand and often because of reasons which would not bother him on other days. Hence, any and every person who'd so much as heard of him were rather cautious when sharing a conversation with him.<p>

Except for Jack.  
>But that didn't count.<br>Because he was bloody stupid.

"She's been caught red-handed and it turns out she's been stealing regularly and profoundly from our local bakery."

Eames paused right before reaching the end of the line and glanced over his shoulder at the German. He narrowed his eyes and Rick-Eric straightened up, confusion obvious on his face. Surely he was analyzing the words he'd spoken only seconds ago in order to find out why the Colonel was glaring at him.  
>Eames allowed him to sweat for a couple of seconds before he dryly remarked.<p>

"We've got a bakery?"

It took the man off-guard and he frowned at Eames as if he'd grown a second head.

"Y-yes, Colonel. It's down Chester-lane at the-" Eames raised a hand, urging the man to shut up as he didn't give a rat's ass about their local bakery which surely was infested with pests, and baguettes baked long enough to scrape the roof of your mouth and be considered capable of stabbing someone to death.

A glance to Isabella confirmed the sensation of being watched which Eames had felt with his back turned. She quickly looked away, Eames could see the gasp stiffening her body and he had every right at that moment to smack her across the face for not having kept her sight casted down.

But he let it slip...

As mentioned before; Eames had never been violent with women. Call him old-fashioned, he never laid hands upon the female gender when in anger. The Japanese seemed to have less inhibition with slapping a woman into next week than the English did. Nonetheless, there were still enough men who raised their paws to either fondle or damage those ladies which were cursed with simply their gender alone. Nationality had little to do with it.

Eames recalled a time in the past when he'd placed the blade of his knife against the throat of one of his very own Japanese men. The soldier had had the job to interrogate a female who at that time was suspected of owning more weaponry then the average man in war. However, when Eames had come to check for information, the female had been beaten black-and-blue. The Colonel had started a fight with the soldier not only to teach him a lesson and get rid of his own anger, but as well so the woman had had a chance to slip out through the door he'd left ajar.

She had.  
>And Eames had let her go, wishing her the best in his mind.<p>

Along with the memory, Eames noticed the tiny finger-print bruises on Isabella's arms and he turned on his heel to stand in front of her once again.

"Did you arrest her at her home?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Was there family?" Eames asked softly, watching the German's face contort in what seemed to be anxiety as he slid down a finger over one of the papers in his hand. His lips moved soundlessly as he read the page in search of Eames' answer.

"Yes,-" He tapped the paper.  
>"-three children and two elderly were inhabiting the same building at the time of her arrest, Colonel."<p>

"Children?" Eames frowned for a second.

"Yes. Ages varied from approximately four to eight years. They have not been taken by our men, though."

"Which bloody nutter found it to be a good idea to arrest her?" Eames' voice was loud. He wasn't shouting, but the sound left from his chest, shoved out by lungs-amount of oxygen.  
>No one replied for various seconds, though they all straightened up a bit, gazes shifting around in nervous glances. As if eye-contact alone would give anyone an answer to offer to Eames.<p>

"I-uh. We thought it would be appreciated, Colonel. She's rather beautiful, ain't she?" The German smiled nervously.

Eames' jaws clenched as his teeth started to grind. Of course these poor excuses of warriors had chosen to pick out physically attractive servants rather than actual functional ones... You know, the ones who knew how to pick up a brush and make a bed.

"Get her dressed, Eric-" Eames began.

"It's-er, it's Christoph, Colonel."

_Bloody hell_. That wasn't even close to what Eames had had in mind. Not that he found importance in remembering names and surely enough 'Christoph' would shape itself into something ridiculous like 'Gustav' by the end of the week.

"Shut your trap, Rick, and get her home."

A hushed silence followed suite and Eames could've sworn he'd heard Jack chuckle somewhere behind him.  
>A stillness fell over them and Eames was very much aware of how contradicting he must look to his men right at that moment. Saito wouldn't be too pleased when catching wind of Eames having sent a potential slave back home, back to freedom.<br>Nonetheless, the Brit was best at lying and bluffing when in the moment and he knew he'd come up with all kinds of excuses on his feet when confronted by Saito.

Improvisation and gut-feeling were aspects of Eames which had allowed him to survive for so long when confronted with so many enemies.

"Chop chop!" Eames barked after another few seconds of disobedience, clapping his hands in time with the words. He watched, satisfied, as a commotion erupted around him. Soldiers stuttered into movement, two of them grabbed the Italian woman by her upper-arms; far more gently than Eames believed they'd do without his watch.

Within the chaos of action being taken, Eames kept his sight on the Italian. He wasn't at all surprised when she searched him out, mouthing a '_thank you_' towards him. He didn't react to her, just watched as she was escorted out of the room by two soldiers.  
>Though her 'thank you' could've been the only English words she'd ever learned, Eames had noted her twitching and tensing during his conversation with the German. So, she <em>understood<em> English, at the least.  
>It wasn't of importance any longer, though.<p>

"Soldiers!" Eames barked, having the men pause in their step dramatically enough for the one on the right to nearly tip over the door's step. They shuffled around to face Eames, Isabella still being held between them.

"I advice you to not try anything funny because, as many of you have experienced first-handedly, I **always** find out." Eames shared calmly, his gaze steady on the two soldiers who muttered their understanding.

"That was a promise." The Brit continued and the men gulped simultaneously.  
>"Dismissed." After a wave of his hand, they exited the room and the door closed behind the third soldier carrying her former clothes.<br>Eames considered his job done. She was back on her own now, he'd done his thing, it'd been the most he could've done for her.

Why?

Well. He wasn't an animal. And he knew what it was like to lose a parent at a similar young age to the three children in her home. Whether they were related by blood or not, it still was so very important for kids to be taken care of, protected as best as possible.

The Colonel turned back to the line of servants, eleven now, and watched them all cower, lowering their curious looks back to the floor once Eames was turned to face them. In his peripheral vision, though, Eames noted someone had yet to avert their gaze and when he turned his head to confront the foolish person, saw he'd already lowered his head.  
>Eames' eyes narrowed at the scrawny kid, wondering if he'd be dumb enough to look back up. Fortunately for him, he didn't.<p>

"Go on, Kevin." Eames addressed the German who by now had given up on correcting his Colonel, instead continuing to ramble off the information he had on every servant, one by one, from left to right.  
>Somewhere in the middle, Eames' focus swerved directions, away from the German's voice in order to pay attention to that sensation of being watched. It was that scrawny, pale boy at the right, again, watching him, however far more subtly than he had earlier.<br>Nevertheless, the Colonel found it hard to believe anyone would be foolish enough to take such risks, knowing perfectly well (such as anyone else in Britain did) that eye-contact between the rich and poor was absolutely frowned upon unless initiated by the one in higher position.  
>The rule was even more outspoken when it fell in the hands of slaves and masters. Those less powerful were expected to keep their chins dipped, or at least have their eyes aimed south.<p>

Eames nipped at his lower-lip for a second, the skin dry because of winter-winds and a preference for alcohol over water. It did its job at attracting another gaze from the slave who, distracted by the Colonel facial expressiveness, was not in time to avert his curiosity off of him when Eames looked over. Their eyes did not exactly meet but he was in time to see the scallywag lower his head, shoulders hunched taut with unavoidable apprehension, if not fear.  
>Well, well... Either that boy was as daft as Jack, or as cock-sure as Eames. The Colonel smirked to himself, enjoying the spark of anger and intrigue before he narrowed his attention back to the German's voice.<p>

The three young women at the end of the line, scallywag at their left, had committed crimes hardly worth mentioning, let alone punishing. Well, perhaps missus France had gone a bit too far with her decision to transform her basement into a humble-scaled family-business, producing alcohol, more specifically wine (loyal to her roots), which was scarce these days and forbidden to be produced by citizens within London city. Liquor taxes were nearly as unaffordable as those on slaves.

Nonetheless, Eames could not repeat what he'd done earlier for the Italian to any of these servants. It'd raise even more suspicion than there already was.

Soldiers, Lieutenants and even more so colonels were supposed to fight this war without assumptions. Enemies were enemies, criminals were criminals and slaves were slaves. Picking preferences wasn't appreciated whatsoever.  
>Eames, however, was as impulsive as he was a calculated thinker. The man acted upon emotion, but then was the best at hiding everything that went on inside of him. Fair to say that the Colonel was a bit of a paradox.<p>

He'd turned a lot of blind eyes in his time, mostly in favor of women and children and though Saito did always lecture him about how he had to make a stone of his heart, the Jap was still very much appreciative of Eames' skills in battle, physical _and_ intellectual.

After all, the Brit wasn't an innocent man, on the contrary, he'd slaughtered men without thinking twice about it. His impulsive killing, firing the second he'd suspect threat had saved his and his army's arse more than once. It was when he'd slit the throat of his comrade with whom he'd spent three years on the battlefield and in poorly-isolated tents, that Saito had truly come to trust the man's tactics and off-kilter mind-sets. Mentioned comrade, Will (a name Eames would _not_ forget), had unfortunately optioned to try and betray Saito in order to flee the country with his wife and two small children.

He'd been a good lad, that one.  
>Eames realized on that day, when Will had been his most personal as well as his most brutal assassination, that he was more beast than man. Someone to fear. To avoid. To hate.<p>

The Colonel was certain that most of his men did not like him, nor was this the goal either. But his soldiers knew that if they did everything as commanded, they had a powerful man watching over their backs. Eames was loyal. A man of his word. A man who'd prove with action rather than phrased promises.  
>However, rub him the wrong way, and he'd move heaven and earth to suffocate your life in a wave of misery until you disappeared below the surface. Often one would never reach the surface ever again.<p>

"And, lastly,-" Rick's voice shook Eames from his wandering brain. He blinked, breathing deeply to calm down his agitated heart pounding erratically.  
>He paced to the end of the line, inner turmoil hidden from his handsome features, before coming to a stop in front of the scrawny, pale kid who'd been eying him curiously not that long ago.<p>

"Name; not known." Erin began and Eames raised an eyebrow at that. He folded his hands behind his back, drinking in the sight of the kid, the German's voice a bit muffled in his eardrums as Eames found the black curls of the boy more interesting.

"Nationality; presumed to be English."

Eames frowned, already growing impatient at the future excuses the German would be telling him in order to explain how he and his man had failed so dramatically in collecting the simplest of information.

The kid's head was dipped low enough that Eames was able to see the nape of his neck were he to lean a bit forwards. He was short, absolutely tiny, emaciated. The Brit doubted that the boy's crown would reach his shoulder even if he'd stretch his body up straight.  
>His shoulders were ridiculously bony, the protruding knobs even more visible as he rolled his shoulders to ease the ache that came with standing hunched, head dipped low for so long.<br>Going by just the sight of him, Eames was surprised the boy hadn't lost consciousness as of yet. His stance certainly was unsteady because of wobbly, scraped knees and a trembling in the muscles of his legs which only came with starvation and absolute exhaustion. His breaths, Eames noted, were too shallow to ever produce enough oxygen to keep his brain in the game. He must be having a hard time with any simple task in daily life.  
>Eames doubted that the slave was even capable of forming a coherent conversation.<p>

"Age suspected to be late teens."

"Late-teens?" Eames stopped the German with his question. There wasn't a chance in hell this boy would be older than fifteen.

He looked at him more closely, wondering if he was watching him as well through the thick curtain of messy black curls that covered his forehead and eyes.

"We're fairly certain he's over seventeen, Colonel." Eames smirked at the poor excuse of an explanation, rolling his hand in order to have the German continue reading the boy's file, before he refolded them behind his back. Rick's voice was starting to tremble, as if Eames' mood went along with the atmosphere in the room, stifling anyone inside.

"He's mute."

The moment that information had been spoken, Eames could see the subtle tensing of the kid's shoulders, his body growing impossibly more rigid. It wouldn't have been obvious if he'd been clothed or not as skinny as he was... But in here, the soft light casting shadows on every bump of his body, he could see the shift clear as day.  
>He wasn't mute. Eames was convinced of this. He'd had enough training in body-language, facial expressions and twitches... Even pupils betrayed a person's lies. He could read people like books. No challenge to be found within most.<p>

"Crimes committed include, amongst many; theft of food, water, alcohol and military weaponry. The latter he has achieved by lock-picking as well as sabotaging the more affordable alarm-systems."

Eames lips couldn't decide whether to curl up in an amused smile or pull down in an annoyed grimace.

"Violence against soldiers- by the hands of biting, scratching, kicking, punching as well as head-butting." The man took a hesitant breath before continuing, as if he feared Eames would blow the kid's brains out right here right now.

Ah, on the contrary...

"Disrespecting soldiers- by the hands of spitting and taunting with lewd hand-gestures as well as pulling faces.  
>Hiding fellow citizens, hiding of stolen goods, smuggling of stolen goods and forging of illegitimate paperwork."<p>

There fell a loaded silence after the German had lowered the file, looking up. Eames made sure to wipe the smirk off his own face before straightening up, eyes still resting on the crown of the boy's head.

"Impressive summary." The Brit whistled, indulgent of how the scallywag startled at the sharp sound coming from somewhere above him.

"Quite so, Colonel. However, our uncertainty about his age and no direct threat being present have disabled our right to punish him with the death penalty."

Eames nodded. If the boy had been known to be over twenty-one (the current legal age to attend to the noose), or at least have _looked_ older, he wouldn't have been standing here today.  
>His never-ending list of crimes was a major defect, however, his young age was his absolute luck. Eames was surprised this kid hadn't been shot to death during one of his quarrels with soldiers. After all, on the streets, with less eyes to regulate the laws' <em>do's and don't's<em>, it was not unusual to act upon impulse and commit unjustified murder.  
>Death penalty and its rules were all and well, but the world was too far gone to keep itself on the right lane. Illegal happenings either tipped towards being disregarded or absolutely overblown.<br>A blind eye to the murder of a child and then execution for a mother stealing much-needed nutrition for their offspring.

"Colonel, myself and colleagues who've accompanied me on the night this boy has been arrested would not advise you to take him as your servant. He's rather difficult to handle, obnoxious even, and incredibly aggressive." Eric carefully added and Eames' perked at the promise of a challenge. Which he should not be interested in. It was bad enough he'd have to own a human being like he'd own an animal, let alone having an aggressive and arrogant twat on his hands twenty-four seven.  
>It wouldn't end well. Eames had little patience. He'd lash out before they would've gotten through their first day, if the slave would treat him like he had comrades.<p>

"Quite the challenge." He murmured lowly, watching a shudder shake the boy's body which was colored in bruises anywhere Eames' eye could reach. He was dirty as well, leaving no doubt that'd he'd been living on the street.  
>The colonel watched for a moment how the boy's hands trembled as his fists were folded so tightly it colored the knuckles white.<p>

Eames could _feel_ his rage.

He was bad news. Fire and fire did not go hand in hand. They'd end up spinning in an inferno before one of them burned alive. And that someone would be the kid, no doubt about it.  
>Eames' sense of pride and authority, perhaps even self-righteousness would never be able to allow him to live along-side a cocky servant without wanting, <em>craving,<em> to dominate it, tame it, subdue it. The Colonel knew, for certain, that this boy would bring out the worst of him, would flare his anger to a point he'd end up hurting him.

Or, well... maybe he _was_ well-behaved with a roof over his head? Maybe it'd just been the fact he'd had soldiers picking him off the street and beating him into submission that had caused him to act up like was stated in his file.

'_Probably not, though._' His brain added rationally.

Whatever he did, Eames should not pick this scrawny, long-limbed teenager. Anyone else would do. He just needed to chose the most boring, most quiet, most backbone-lacking servant of them all.  
>That's what he'd promised himself for the past weeks, that's what he'd urged himself to do -not long ago when standing in front of the very door having lead him inside of here.<p>

Yet, he could not stop himself from asking further, curious about the mute boy. Assuring his upset conscience that questioning wouldn't hurt. That finding out more about this slave, honestly and truly would definitely, convincingly **not** influence Eames' opinions for the worst.  
>No. Not gonna happen.<p>

"Any family?" Eames asked, slamming the door shut on his panicking thoughts. The German looked back down at his papers.

"No, Colonel, none. We picked him off the streets. He hasn't got a home or house either." Eames hummed at that, thoughtfully observing every inch of the adolescent in front of him... He seemed pretty subdued right now, and those earlier glances... well, they'd been curiosity, right? They hadn't had anything to do with arrogance or rebellion, because if that had been the case, he'd never have tried to hide the fact he'd been watching Eames.

He would've held his eye, inviting a beating.

The boy coughed under his breath, doing his utmost best at keeping quiet and Eames listened to the rasp in his lungs and the gurgle in the back of his throat. He really wasn't doing all that well.

'_Even more reason to not take him. A virus-infested street-rat is of no use._' Shared a part of his brain of which Eames wasn't sure was the good side or the bad one. After all, it was cruel to throw this boy back out or into the hands of some fat, rich pig who'd molest him daily. Yet, then again, he shouldn't take this boy because he knew he himself was a danger to it as well. He might not sexually assault the boy, but there was no doubt there'd be physical contact within the shape of intentional damage caused by fists or the flat of one of Eames' hands.  
>Eames could not handle rebels in a respectful manner, but neither could he doormats... So what the hell would it be then?<br>A quiet voice in the back of his conscience assured Eames that this boy wouldn't make it to his twenties were he to be thrown back on the streets. Hell... if he'd survive another year it'd be an outstanding accomplishment. So, to the boy, it was a lose-lose situation wherein Eames was the lesser of possible evils.

The Brit lowered his gaze over the boy's legs which were as good as hairless, betraying his age.  
>His feet were almost blackened by filth, but the dirt did not hide the poor state of them. Wounds, scars and scratches showing he'd been roaming streets longer than just a couple of months.<p>

Eames felt an unfamiliar heat tightening his chest which felt a lot like guilt but seemed to be layered with something else; an explanation as to why he couldn't quite pull his eyes off the kid or so much as presume he'd not take him home that very night. The Brit wasn't certain of what it was exactly that was taking his breath away. Empathy? Curiosity? Nostalgia?

All he knew was that he wanted him.

Perhaps it **was** his guilt -his shame of having taken so many lives without second thought- that urged him to claim this kid and allow him to at least recuperate from his tough life, give him a second chance like Eames had had when meeting Saito.  
>After all, he could just throw him back out once he'd had some fat on him and his lungs had stopped sounding like a meat-grinder... So, what's the big deal?<p>

What's to lose?

Eames had been the same at that age. No family, living on the streets, committing crime after crime and then having been wary of a sudden stranger coming into his life. He still didn't understand what it had been that Saito had seen in him, but he'd treated him like a son from day one. Though he was strict, cold even, the man had raised Eames without ever breaking their bond of trust and loyalty.

Maybe that's what this kid deserved as well? Maybe what Saito had seen in Eames back then was what the Colonel was now seeing in the mute.

'_But your rage..._' His mind provided warningly.

Eames pinched the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes. His headache had finally come through as he pondered what it was that drew him to him. He was as much in awe as he was agitated when hearing about how he'd treated fellow soldiers, mocking them, like an arrogant brat would.  
>The crimes he'd committed... there'd been small things and big things but more so he'd committed acts which proved he was a bright boy. This slave wasn't just any other kid on the street. There was a grand personality to him, an intelligence that could only come by having gone through hell and back.<br>And this shouldn't matter. This shouldn't influence Eames' choices of that night.  
>Nevertheless, they did. And they did to such a degree it caused the Colonel to pity his own childhood as it flashed by on his closed eyelids.<p>

'_Eames? What's it gonna be, eh?' _He asked himself.

As if the kid could hear the man's inner turmoil, he carefully peeked up through his bangs. His head barely moved but Eames noticed and as he looked down into one of the boy's dark-brown eyes, he knew the decision had been made.

"Send the others away." Eames spoke softly, eyes not leaving the boy's who as well seemed determined to not cower.

Whereas before Eames had been a wee bit upset about all those servants not being able to have gotten released, right now there wasn't a thought left in his mind, all attention directed at the adolescent in front of him.  
>He couldn't decide which prospect sounded more appealing; save the child or discipline the brat? Teach him manners with a hard hand, but then soothe him like a father straight after. Ignore his very existence on Sundays, then ask about his past on Mondays.<p>

The Brit blinked out of his thoughts when the sound of a door being closed echoed behind him.

The boy seemed to flinch, as startled as Eames and his skinny body tensed up with a fear that had grown now that he was alone in this room with only Eames, Jack and Kevin.

"Jack." Eames called, exhaling a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when the boy lowered his head, breaking eye-contact at last.  
>"Bring me two chairs."<p>

It didn't take the soldier long to fetch the chairs from one of the corners of the room, dragging them towards the middle where Eames and the boy were stood. The legs scraped over the floorboards irritatingly loud, wood vibrating through Eames' shoes.

Eames dismissed Jack once he'd gotten the chairs and proceeded to place one behind the kid. The boy flinched, though Eames wasn't certain if it was because of their close proximity or just the loud thump as he forcefully placed the seat on the floor.

"Jack, fancy leaving?" Eames spoke without looking over his shoulder at the soldier. It hadn't been a request. It was a clear command and as the young man exited the room, Eames noted how the German began sweating and shifting his eyes around nervously.

Ignoring the man's guilty looks for the moment, Eames lowered himself on his chair, keeping three feet in between himself and the slave.

"Sit." Eames commanded with a calm voice, yet this still didn't prevent the scrawny teenager from folding his hands back into white-knuckled fists. Now that he was positioned lower, it was easier to see the boy's face underneath the messy bangs and -such as he'd expected- was met by a leer and clenched jaws.

He was beautiful.  
>Too beautiful for a boy. With high cheekbones, a tiny nose and almond-shaped eyes, there was a femininity to him which Eames had not often seen within boys his age. His neck was slender as were his wrists, fingers long and bony. He looked... elegant, delicate, perhaps even royal once he'd gotten a bath to bare that pale flesh hiding underneath dirt.<br>His lower-lip was busted and swollen, but Eames could see the peculiar shape to the both of them.

'_Cupid-bow lips.'_

"Go on. Eyes down and sit." Eames commanded for a second time, his voice soft with a feigned friendliness clinging to the intonation's edges. It was a one-time thing. The kid wouldn't get away with disobedience once he'd heard the Brit's expectations and rules. For now, however, it was acceptable.  
>Though the curiosity on his youthful face amused Eames, there was still an arrogant flair to the boy, a suspicion which started to get under the Colonel's skin.<p>

It took the mute another couple of prolonged seconds before he gingerly perched himself on the edge of the chair. He winced and grimaced with every move and Eames wasn't surprised by that, considering the kid looked like a bloody human boxing-ball.

"He's pretty beaten up, ain't he?" Eames fished, his sight focused on the boy -not wanting to miss a single twitch or shift in his body that would betray underlying thoughts and truths- and his voice directed at the German.

"Yes, Colonel."

"Why?" The Brit questioned, tilting his head a tad to the side, observing the boy from a different angle. As far as he could tell, he wasn't glaring any longer. He looked _exhausted _though.  
>When the German didn't reply, Eames' sight set camp on his features, his own face void of any emotion that would betray to Erin what he was truly thinking at that time.<p>

Eames wasn't a fool. He'd noticed the spite in the soldier's voice when addressing the kid or so much as talking _about_ him. There'd been glares cast upon the back of his head and this together with the fresh scraped wounds on the German's knuckles had notified Eames that he'd had been participating in the boy's recent abuse.

A wave of red collided against his not-so-solid self-control. However, Eames managed to appear calm, even though he felt himself boiling from the inside out.

"He put up quite a fight, Colonel." The German explained, brushing the back of his hand across his forehead which had started to shimmer with a nervous sweat.

"Well, surely nothing you're not capable of handling, am I correct, Nick?" Eames made sure to plaster a smile on his face and chuckle along with the words.  
>Such as he'd expected, the German started laughing along, a hopeful look about him, as if he was truly believing Eames wasn't upset with him.<p>

'_What an idiot_.'

"Well, no, sir. I managed to handle the situation just fine." Kevin replied and Eames watched his chest puff out, truly proud of having beaten up a defenseless child.  
>Nonetheless, the Brit hummed understandingly, his eyes wavering between the two before he settled his gaze back on the boy in front of him.<p>

"Now, this split lip, though..."

The kid recoiled aggressively when Eames reached out a gloved hand, before tilting his chin up to reveal his face. There'd been a split second in which the slave had desired to slap the Colonel's hand away, and naturally the latter had taken note of this. That being said, he let it all slide for now. Tomorrow was another day, a day in which the man would have more energy to scold this child.

Eames could hear and see the mute taking a breath and holding it. He could feel him tremble just through the few fingers he'd placed upon his skin.

His brown eyes were dark in the dim light and a fear-induced anger swirled within them. Unlike Eames he was horrible at hiding his emotions from his eyes. They told the man even more than his set jaw and flared nostrils.

"Eyes down." Eames spoke quietly as the kid didn't seem to be planning on looking away any time soon, as if he'd set camp in the gray of Eames' gaze (most likely hoping to ambush him and stab a fork in 'em).  
>However, he obeyed, though it got accompanied with a grimace of disgust on his features. The lids of his eyes fluttered shut and Eames vaguely grasped the ridiculous length to his black lashes.<p>

"We-er, we had to keep him down, sir. He'd been forming a threat to our men."

Eames scowled, pulling his hand away from the kid's chin and watched his head bow back down, chin to chest.

"A threat?" The Colonel repeated as he leaned back in his seat and directed his attention back to the German who only nodded.  
>"Have you seen the state of him? He's <em>emaciated<em>."

The boy's hands, which rested in his lap, folded back into fists. There was blood under his nails.

"Not to mention... He's but a child, soldier." Eames continued, tearing his eyes away from the slave once again. He made sure to keep his voice calm, though he allowed Eric to see him glance at the reddened knuckles of his hands. Rick lowered the file he'd been clinging to his chest -like a shield- in a futile attempt to hide away the evidence of what he had done.  
>But, going by the paleness of him, Eames was convinced that the German was now positive about his Colonel's awareness.<p>

To prove his point further, a long silence stretched between them in which the soldier stared at the floor and Eames glared daggers into his skull.

"My sincerest apologies, Colonel."

Eames, for a second, indulged the fantasy of having this man apologize to the boy he'd assaulted... on his knees. But he had a facade to withhold for Saito's sake and thus he rose to his feet without saying another word.  
>The German was now convinced that his apology had not been accepted and he and Eames both knew that his punishment would come sooner rather than later.<p>

For now, Eames just wanted to get home and sleep all the stress of the night off. Well, first he'd need a cigarette or two, three.

Okay, six.

The man tutted thrice, moving his fingers in a come-hither manner in front of the kid's face, urging him to get up.

The stiffness in the slave's joints was apparent in the slowness of his movements and the tensing of his muscles as he tried desperately to minimize any pain present within his body.

With head still bowed, the mute stood still in front of Eames who took another moment to observe the finger-tip-shaped bruises on his arms and shoulders. It only fueled his hunger for vengeance. He didn't so much as know this kid, would probably come to despise him, but nonetheless the German who'd been a dog before, had now upgraded to being a pig in Eames' eyes.

"Get his clothes and fetch my men." The Brit demanded in a lazy drawl as he went to the bar to grab his coat, scarf and hat.

"Right away, Colonel!" The German positively barked, stomping one foot onto the floor whilst bringing up a hand to his forehead in a salute. 'T was obvious that Kevin had begun his desperate attempts to please his Colonel and defuse the cruelty of his future punishment.

Damn suck-up.

As Eames shoved an arm through the sleeve of his coat, his eyes couldn't help but search out the kid. He was still standing between the two chairs, his head still down though he'd brought up his hands to the nape of his neck, rubbing the muscles in an attempt to soothe them.  
>The fabric of his wife-beater stretched taut over his narrow chest, exposing the shadows of the protruding ribs beneath. Eames felt a peculiar need to shove food into the boy's mouth.<p>

The mute dressed himself when Eric had brought his clothes, which honestly seemed to be at least a decade old and having survived more than one World War. The soles of his shoes were starting to peel off of the heels, exposing some skin with every step he took. Eames watched him shuffle around, wondering why the kid thought he was free to move and do as he pleased at this very moment.

However, before he could word his displeasure, the door opened to reveal the men Erin had fetched.

Eames clacked his tongue twice like one would do to call over a dog, the only thing missing being a hand slapping on the thigh. The boy tensed but did follow him towards the exit, nearly bumping into his back when Eames paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at the German.

"Oh, and-" Eames began, watching Gustav or whatever-the-fuck-his-name-was, straighten up, fully fixated with ears perked.

"Yes, Colonel?"

The Brit left him hanging for a moment as he looked down at the short boy who acted as exhausted as he looked, not a fight in him. And he wondered how he'd ever come to get used to a stranger's company. More so, Eames was desperately curious of how the kid would be once he'd rested, bathed and had his belly filled with food to accompany the medication Eames was convinced he needed.

The Brit blinked slowly before resting a lazy stare on the German's face, and as he turned to leave the room he made sure to share what message he had for him.

"-Notify Mr. Saito that I have claimed a slave."


End file.
